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THE 


ART   OF   PLAYWRITING 


BEING  A  PRACTICAL  TREATISE  ON  THE 

ELEMENTS  OF  DRAMATIC 

CONSTRUCTION 


INTENDED  FOR  THE  PLAYWRIGHT,  THE  STUDENT, 
AND  THE   DRAMATIC   CRITIC 


ALFRED  HENNEQUIN,  Ph.D. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON       •       NEW  YORK       •       CHICAGO       •       DALLAS 
ATLANTA       •       SAN  FRANCISCO 


COPYRIGHT,  1890,  BY  ALFRED  HBNNSQUIN 
COPYRIGHT,   I918,    BY   MARUt  HSNNEQiJIN 

ALL  SIGHTS  RESERVED  INCLUDING  THE  RIGHT  TO  REPRODUCE 
THIS  BOOK  OR  PARTS  THEREOF  IN  ANY  FORM 


To 

BRONSON  HOWARD, 

IS   REMEMBRANCE    OF  A  PLEASANT  WINTER   WHEN   THE 
SHENANDOAH  WAS  ON  THE  STOCKS. 

THK  AUTHOR. 


INTEODUCTIOK 


There  are  two  classes  of  readers  for  whose 
needs  a  book  of  this  sort  should  aim  to  pro- 
vide :  (1)  those  who  know  much  about  the 
practical  workings  of  the  theatre,  but  have 
little  constructive  knowledge;  and  (2)  those 
whose  instinct  for  dramatic  construction  is 
strong,  but  who,  through  lack  of  opportunity, 
have  acquired  little  insight  into  the  practical 
details  of  stage  representation.  With  this 
end  in  view,  the  work  has  been  arranged  in 
two  principal  divisions,  the  first  dealing  with 
the  minutiae  of  the  theatre,  the  second  with 
the  principles  of  dramatic  construction. 

In  the  first  the  reader  is  inducted  into  the 
twilight  region  which  lies  beyond  the  scenes, 
told  the  name  and  function  of  the  pieces  of 
stage  machinery,  introduced  to  "wings," 
"flats,"  "set-pieces,"  "grooves,"  "torment- 
ors,"—  taught  the  office  of  the  various  exits 
and  entrances,  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of 
stage  conventionalities  —  in  short,  made  ac- 
quainted with  every  feature  of  the  modem 
stage  which  concerns  him  as  a  working  play- 
wright.    In  the  second  part,  an  endeavor  is 


Vi  INTRODUCTION. 

made  to  set  forth  the  theory  and  art  of  play- 
writing,  first,  by  a  thorough  classification  and 
analysis  of  the  drama,  and  second,  by  a  prac- 
tical exposition  of  the  actual  process  of  build- 
ing up  a  play  from  the  first  crude  suggestion. 
To  very  many  readers  doubtless  an  attempt 
to  teach  an  art  notoriously  so  subtile  and 
complex  as  that  of  playwriting  will  seem 
like  proposing  a  recipe  for  "  Paradise  Lost " 
or  a  formula  for  "The  Mill  on  the  Floss." 
They  will  say  (and  with  much  plausibility) 
that  if  playwriting  is  an  art,  its  rules  are 
airy,  impalpable,  elusive.  To  set  them  down 
in  prosaic  black  and  white  is  to  imprison 
Ariel  in  the  rived  oak  where  he  can  no 
longer  work  his  magic  for  us.  The  force  of 
all  this  may  be  granted,  and  yet  we  may  in- 
sist that  there  are  special  reasons  why  a 
work  on  playwriting,  if  properly  conceived, 
should  be  entitled  to  greater  consideration 
than  one  which  pretends  to  explain  the  se- 
crets of  poetry  or  fiction.  The  poet  or  novel- 
ist is  at  arm's  length  from  his  audience.  He 
has  only  to  get  his  poem  or  novel  into  type 
and  his  thought  is  within  reach  of  every 
man  that  reads.  With  the  dramatist  the  case 
is  far  otherwise.  Between  him  and  his  audi- 
ence looms  up  a  monstrous,  unwieldy,  mys- 
terious instrument  of  interpretation,  rusty 
with  traditions,  top-heavy  with  prejudices, 
stuffed  to  bursting  with  curious,  antiquated, 
€razy  machinery  of  which  few  know,  or  care 


INTRODUCTION.  VU 

to  know,  the  meaning.  It  is  through  this 
instrument  —  the  theatre  —  that  the  drama- 
tist must  convey  his  conception  to  his  hear- 
ers. No  matter  how  brilliant  his  genius, 
how  fertile  his  imagination,  unless  he  has 
studied  the  intricacies  of  this  ponderous  ma- 
chine his  labor  is  likely  to  go  for  nothing. 
His  play  may  be  most  delightful  reading, 
but  unless  it  will  lend  itself  to  the  peculiar 
requirements  of  the  stage  it  is  not  worth,  for 
dramatic  purposes,  the  paper  it  is  written  on. 

Now  there  are  three  methods  by  which  the 
beginner  may  acquire  this  knowledge.  He 
may  go  on  the  stage ;  he  may  converse  with 
actors  and  playwrights ;  he  may  have  re- 
course to  books.  The  first  plan  is  unques- 
tionably an  excellent  one.  The  young  dram- 
atist can  spend  a  year  in  no  more  profitable 
way  than  as  "  walking-gentleman "  in  a  trav- 
eling or  stock  company.  By  no  other  means 
is  he  likely  to  acquire  so  intimate  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  highways  and  by-ways  of  the 
world  behind  the  scenes. 

But  there  are  two  considerations  which 
preclude  the  universal  application  of  this 
method.  In  the  first  place,  the  young  play- 
wright may  not  know  what  to  observe.  He 
may  never  have  learned  that  first  great  art  — 
the  art  of  seeing  with  his  eyes  open.  That 
being  the  case,  the  time  and  perhaps  money 
which  he  expends  for  his  stage  experience 
may  be  virtually  thrown  away ;  for  the  stage, 
while  a  good  school  for  those  who  know  how 


VUl  INTRODUCTION. 

to  take  advantage  of  its  instruction,  is  one  of 
the  worst  in  the  world  for  those  who  do  not. 
Nowhere  is  the  student  unguided  by  sound 
principles  more  likely  to  acquire  a  taste  for 
small  theatrical  artifices,  hackneyed  phrases 
and  forced,  unmeaning  situations.  As  a  proof 
that  mere  presence  on  the  stage  is  not  suffi- 
cient of  itself  to  inculcate  valid  dramatic 
principles,  any  reader  of  plays  could  cite  the 
case  of  hundreds  of  actors  of  the  day  whose 
familiarity  with  stage  matters  has  become 
second  nature,  and  who  yet  betray  the  most 
absolute  misconception  of  the  application  of 
their  technical  knowledge  to  the  business  of 
playwriting. 

But  there  is  another  and  a  less  debatable 
objection  to  the  stage  as  a  dramatic  educator. 
What  this  is,  will  appear  as  soon  as  we  try- 
to  answer  the  question.  Who  writes  plays  ? 
Upon  this  point,  no  one  but  a  professional 
"reader"  can  pretend  to  furnish  accurate 
statistics.  It  will  be  interesting,  therefore, 
to  quote  a  private  letter  to  the  author  from 
one  whose  right  to  speak  in  matters  of  this 
kind  cannot  be  called  in  question. 

"  There  are  thousands  of  plays  written 
every  year  in  this  country.  ...  It  would  be 
easier  to  enumerate  the  classes  of  those  who 
do  not  write  plays  than  of  those  who  do.  .  .  . 
We  receive  MSS.  from  journalists,  novelists, 
dramatic  critics,  theatrical  reporters,  amateur 
performers,  merchants,  brokers,  bankers,  law- 
yers (not  only  the  young  and  obscure  but 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

those  of  almost  national  reputation),  ladies  of 
high  social  position,  government  clerks,  army 
and  navy  officials,  telegraph  operators,  college 
students,  bookkeepers,  typewriters,  physicians, 
teachers  in  our  public  schools  (of  both  sexes), 
professors  in  our  leading  universities,  actors, 
theatrical  managers  and  attaches,  commer- 
cial travelers,  musicians,  painters,  architects, 
engravers,  ministers,  politicians,  congressmen, 
and  members  of  the  supreme  bench  of  —  I 
dare  not  say  what  States  of  the  Union." 

Now  in  the  majority  of  these  cases  it 
would  be  manifestly  absurd  to  advise  any 
going  upon  the  stage.  The  humble  govern- 
ment clerk  desirous  of  eking  out  her  meagre 
salary,  the  cripple  and  the  invalid,  alleviating 
the  real  tragedy  of  life  by  the  ideal  sorrows  of 
imaginary  characters,  the  hurried  professional 
man  and  the  harried  journalist,  —  all  these 
are  alike  debarred  from  the  means  of  acquir- 
ing the  needed  information.  Nor  in  many 
instances  is  it  practicable  for  those  of  the 
classes  named  to  consult  with  dramatists  or 
actors  regarding  the  rules  and  requirements 
of  stage  representation. 

It  is  upon  books,  we  must  then  conclude, 
that  the  great  army  of  those  who  experiment 
at  playwriting  —  the  army  from  whose  ranks 
our  professional  playwrights  are  largely 
drawn  —  is  dependent  for  whatever  instruc- 
tion it  may  get  regarding  the  art  of  writing 
plays  for  the  stage.  For  English  and  Amer- 
ican readers  such  books  are  practically  non« 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

existent.  There  is  no  one  work,  at  any  rate, 
in  the  English  language  or  any  other  tongue 
(as  far  as  the  author's  experience  goes)  which 
pretends  to  have  gathered  together  all  avail- 
able information  on  the  subject.  A  real  de- 
ficiency seems,  therefore,  to  exist,  and  it  is 
with  the  purpose  of  supplying  this  deficiency 
that  the  present  work  has  been  written.  As 
to  the  old  question,  How  much  benefit  may  a 
writer  derive  from  books  on  writing  ?  —  that 
is  a  discussion  which  may  be  set  aside  simply 
because  it  is  old.  No  great  author  was  ever 
hurt  by  the  study  of  the  principles  of  rhetoric, 
and  no  small  author  ever  achieved  success 
without  such  study.  Although  no  book  of 
this  sort  is  able  to  supply  the  dramatic  faculty 
where  it  is  absolutely  wanting,  or  likely  to 
aid  materially  the  creative  processes  of  strong 
natural  genius,  it  may  yet  be  the  means  of 
leading  to  the  achievement  of  no  inconsider- 
able number  of  smaller  successes,  and  so  ac- 
complish what  is,  after  all,  the  only  hope  of 
the  drama  in  this  country,  —  the  raising  of 
the  general  average  of  dramatic  workman- 
ship. 

It  may  be  said,  in  conclusion,  that  there 
are  many  persons  beside  those  who  have  felt 
the  actual  need  of  a  book  of  this  kind,  for 
whom  the  study  of  dramatic  art  (even  if  lim- 
ited to  construction)  will  be  found  of  profit. 
The  dramatic  critic,  indeed,  finds  it  altogether 
indispensable ;  but  to  any  one  who  is  at  all 
interested  in    the    study   of   literature,   and 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

especially  of  the  drama,  it  may  be  recom- 
mended as  one  of  the  most  interesting  and 
delightful  fields  for  investigation  which  it  is 
possible  for  him  to  cultivate. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  work,  the  au- 
thor has  received  assistance  and  suggestions 
from  so  many  playwrights,  actors,  managers 
and  literary  men  that  he  can  find  space  here 
only  to  make  a  general  acknowledgment.  It 
would  be  ungrateful  in  him,  however,  to  pass 
by  without  special  mention  the  great  obliga- 
tions under  which  he  rests,  to  that  prince  of 
gentlemen  and  first  of  American  dramatists, 
Mr.  Bronson  Howard,  to  Mr.  A.  M.  Palmer, 
manager  of  the  Madison  Square  Theatre,  to 
Mr.  Louis  Ludovici,  "  reader  "  of  the  Madison 
Square  Theatre,  to  Mrs.  "  Minnie  Maddern  " 
Fiske,  and  —  last  but  by  no  means  least  — 
to  Madame  Janauschek.  It  is  a  pleasure 
also  to  refer  to  many  kindly  favors  shown 
him  by  the  late  A.  S.  Cazauran,  although  the 
ears  that  should  hear  these  thanks  have  long 
been  closed  to  the  things  of  this  world. 

Finally,  the  author  wishes  to  acknowledge 
a  very  considerable  indebtedness  to  Mr.  F.  N. 
Scott,  Assistant  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and 
lecturer  on  .^Esthetics  in  the  University  of 
Michigan,  of  whose  wide  scholarship  in  mat- 
ters pertaining  to  literature,  art,  and  the  drama 
he  has  freely  availed  himself. 

Alfred  Hennequin. 

Ann  Abbor,  Michigan,  Ju/y,  1890. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  THEATEE  STAFF. 

PAOI 

1.  Officers  and  Attaches 1 

(1.)  The  Manager 1 

(2.)  The  Assistant  Manager 1 

(3.)  The  Treasurer 2 

(4.)  The  Stage-Manager 2 

(5.)  The  Reader 3 

2.  The  Attaches 3 

(1.)  The  Property-Man 3 

(2.)  The  Fly-Man 3 

(3.)  The  Gas-Man 4 

(4.)  The  Scene-Shifter 4 

(5.)  The  Stage-Carpenter 4 

(6.)  The  Ticket-Taker 4 

(7.)  The  Backdoor-Keeper 4 

(8.)  The  Head-Usher 5 

(9.)  The  Director  of  the  Orchestra 6 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE  STAGE. 

1.  The  Boards 6 

2.  The  Stage 6 

3.  Parts  of  the  Stage 6 

4.  The  Stage  Proper 7 

5.  The  Stage-Cloths 7 

6.  The  Proscenium 8 

7.  The  Wings 8 


XIV  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

8.  TheFlies 9 

9.  The  Dock 9 

10.  The  Green-Room 9 

11.  The   Property-Room 9 

12.  The  Dressing-Rooms ., 10 

13.  The  Traps 10 

14.  Dimensions  of  the  Stage 11 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  SCENERY, 

1.  Stage  Scenery 12 

2.  Different  kinds  of  Scenery Z2 

3.  The  Drops 12 

4.  The  Flats  and  Wood-Cuts 13 

5.  The  Set-Pieces 14 

6.  The  Borders 14 

7.  A  Bunch-Light 15 

8.  The  Grooves 15 

9.  A  Run 15 

10.  A  Scene-Plot 15 

11.  A  Property-Plot 15 

12.  The  Setting  of  aPlay 15 


CHAPTER  IV. 

STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 

1.  Lines  and  Business 16 

2.  Analysis  of  the  Illustration 16 

3.  The  Lines 17 

4.  The  Business 17 

5.  Kinds  of  Business 17 

6.  At  Rise 17 

7.  Enters  and  Exil :. 18 

8.  Location  of  Characters  during  the  Act 18 

9.  Meaning  of  Abbreviations 19 

10.  Plan  with  Entrances 20 

11.  Meaning  of  Abbreviations 20 

12.  The  Tormentors 21 

13.  Movement  of  Characters  during  the  Act 21 

14.  Going  Up 23 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  XT 

16.  Coming  Down 22 

16.  Crossing  Over 22 

17.  Exercise  in  Stage  Movements 22 

18.  Incidents 23 

19.  Minor  Business 23 


CHAPTER  V. 

STAGE  PLANS. 

1.  Interiors 25 

Plan  No.  1 25 

2.  Doors  and  Windows 25 

3.  Number  of  Entrances 26 

Plan  No.  2 26 

4.  Plan  with  Run 26 


CHAPTER  VI. 

STAGE  PLANS  (continued). 

1.  Exteriors 28 

Plan  No.  1 28 

2.  General  Remarks  on  Plans 28 

Plan  No.  2 29 

3.  Additional  Abbreviations  for  Stage-Settings 29 

4.  Material  for  Scene-Plots  for  the  above  Interiors 

and  Exteriors 29 

For  Interior  Plan  No.  1 30 

For  Interior  Plan  No.  2 30 

For  Exterior  Plan  No.  1 81 

For  Exterior  Plan  No.  2 31 

5.  Property  Plots 31 


CHAPTER  VII. 

DtBTERENT  KINDS  OF  PLAYS.  —  TRAGEDY. 

1.  No  Systematic  Classification 32 

2.  Two  Principal  Classes 32 

3.  The  Distinction  Valuable 3? 

4.  Different  Classes  of  Plays 3^ 

5.  Tragedy 34 


xvi  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

6.  Comedy S5 

7.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style 35 

8.  The  Theme 3H 

9.  Kinds  of  Tragedy 37 

10.  Meaning  of  the  word  "  Classic  " 37 

11.  Meaning  of  the  word  "  Romantic  " 38 

12.  Ancient  Classic  Tragedy 38 

13.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style 39 

14.  Modem  Classic  Tragedy 39 

15.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style 39 

16.  Romantic  Tragedy 40 

17.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style 40 

18.  Mediated  Tragedy 41 

CHAPTER  ^^II. 

DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PLAYS  (continued).  —  MEDIATED 
TBAGEDT. 

1.  Subdivisions 43 

2.  The  Drame 43 

S.  The  Romantic  Drame 43 

4.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style 44 

5.  The  Social  Drame 45 

6.  The  Pi^ce 45 

7.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style 46 

8.  The  Emotional  Drama 46 

9.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style 46 

10.  Melodrama 47 

11.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style 47 

12.  Spectacular  Drama 48 

13.  The  Musical  Drama 49 

CHAPTER  IX. 

DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PLAYS  (continued).  —  COMEDY. 

1.  Kinds  of  Comedy 50 

2.  Ancient  Classic  Comedy 51 

3.  Modern  Classic  and  Romantic  Comedy 51 

4.  Comedy  of  Manners 61 

5.  The  Comedy  Drama 62 

6.  The  Farce  Comedy 62 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  Xvii 

7.  The  Farce 53 

8.  The  Burlesque 53 

9.  The  Burletta 53 

10.  The  Comedietta 53 

U.  Kecapitulation  and  Illustrations 54 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  PABTS  OF  A  PLAY. 

1.  Acts .57 

2.  Divisions  of  the  Acts 57 

3.  Definition  of  an  Act 57 

4.  Entr'acte 57 

5.  Scene 57 

6.  Tahleau 57 

7.  Situation 58 

8.  Number  of  Acts 58 

9.  Length  of  Acts 59 

10.  How  to  Determine  the  Leng^th  of  an  Act 60 

11.  Rule  for  Determining  the  Length  of  a  Play 61 

CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  ENTER. 

1.  Meaning  of  the  Term 62 

2.  Discovered  at  Rise 62 

3.  TheRe-Enter 62 

4.  When  the  Term  Re-enter  should  be  used 62 

5.  Passing  at  Rear 6.S 

6.  Appearance 63 

7.  Management  of  the  Enter G4 

8.  Logical  Enter 64 

9.  Conventional  Use  of  Entrances 65 

10.  Lines  with  Enter 65 

11.  Use  of  the  Tormentors 66 

12.  Preparing  for  Enter 66 

13.  Stereotyped  Forms 67 

14.  Enters  prepared  for  by  the  Plot 67 

15.  Leading  up  to  Enter  of  Star 68 

16.  Names  Mentioned 69 

17.  Double  Enter 69 

18.  Unnoticed  Enter 69 


XVm  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  EXIT. 

1.  Meaning  of  the  Term 70 

2.  Relation  of  the  Exit  to  the  Lines 70 

3.  The  Exit  to  create  a  Situation 70 

4.  Exit  without  Lines 71 

5.  Exit  with  an  Apart 71 

6.  Exit  with  Re-enter 71 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

DIFPERENT  BOLES  IN  PLAYS.  —  MALE  ROLES. 

1.  Types  of  Characters 73 

2.  Classification  of  Actors 73 

3.  Roles 73 

4.  Male  Roles 74 

5.  The  Star 74 

6.  Star  Plays 74 

7.  Double  Stars 75 

8.  The  Leading  Man 75 

9.  The  Heavy 75 

10.  The  First  Old  Man 76 

11.  The  Second  Old  Man 76 

12.  The  Comedian 76 

13.  The  Light  Comedian 76 

14.  The  Low  Comedian 77 

15.  The  Eccentric  Comedian 77 

16.  The  Villain 77 

17.  The  Juvenile 78 

18.  The  Walking  Gentleman 78 

19.  The  Utility  Man 78 

20.  The  Super 78 

21.  Character  Actor 78 

22.  Doubling  up 79 

CHAPTER  XrV. 

DIFFERENT  ROLES  IN  PLAYS.  —  FEMALE    ROLES. 

1.  Classification  of  Female  Roles  80 

2.  Correspondence  to  Male  Roles 80 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  xix 

3.  The  Soubrette 81 

4.  The  Ingenue 81 

5.  Arrangement  of  Cast 81 

6.  Cast  of  Traveling  Companies 82 

CHAPTER  XV. 

WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  PLAY. 

1.  Definition 83 

2.  The  Story 84 

3.  What  Constitutes  a  Story 85 

4.  Characters 85 

5.  Characters  Suited  to  the  Story 86 

6.  Characters  Distinguished 86 

7.  Self-Consistency  of  Characters 87 

8.  Characters  as  Foils 87 

9.  Completeness 87 

10.  Unity 88 

11.  The  Three  Unities 89 

12.  Unity  of  Action 89 

13.  Unity  of  Time 89 

14.  Unity  of  Place 89 

15.  The  Story  must  be  one  that  can  be  Acted 90 

16.  The  Story  must  be  suited  to  Stage  Conventions ....  90 

17.  Motived  Incidents 91 

CHAPTEE  XVI. 

WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  PLAY  (continued).  — MEANS  OF 
CREATING  INTEREST. 

1.  Interest  and  Pleasure  92 

2.  Novelty 92 

3.  Variety  and  Contrast 93 

4.  Suspense 93 

5.  Surprise 94 

6.  Climax 95 

7.  Humor  and  Pathos 95 

8.  Where  Stories  come  from 95 

9.  Character  of  Good  Stories 96 

10.  Adaptation 96 

11.  Adapting  Novels 97 

12.  Adapting  Foreign  Plays 97 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  —  EXPOSIXIOX. 

1.  Making  the  Outline 98 

2.  Intervals 98 

3.  Purpose  of  the  Exposition 99 

4.  Management  of  the  Exposition 100 

5.  Methods  of  Exposition 100 

6.  The  Prologue 100 

7.  The  Spoken  Prologue 100 

8.  The  Acted  Prologue 101 

9.  Exposition  by  Narration 101 

10.  Spirited  Narration 102 

11.  Points  of  Effectiveness 103 

12.  Exposition  made  part  of  the  Story 104 

13.  Implication 104 

14.  Implication  by  Words 104 

15.  Analysis  of  Implication  by  Words 105 

16.  Implication  by  Action 107 

17.  Length  of  Exposition 107 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION  {continued).  —  GROWTH. 

1.  Growth  and  Exposition 109 

2.  Conflict  and  Plot 109 

3.  Beginning  of  the  Growth 110 

4.  Elements  of  the  Conflict Ill 

5.  Main  and  Subsidiary  Actions 113 

6.  Example  of  Subsidiary  Action 113 

7.  Analysis  of  Illustration 115 

8.  Episodes 115 

9.  Series  of  Climaxes 116 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION  (continued).  —  THB 
HEIGHT   OR  GRAND   CLIMAX. 

L  Tying  of  the  Knot 118 

2.  Rules  of  the  Height. 118 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  xxi 

3.  Height  as  Consequence  of  the  Growth 119 

4.  Height  as  Summing  up  of  the  Growth 119 

5.  Place  of  the  Height 120 

6.  Multiple  CUmaxes 121 

7.  Management  of  Multiple  Chmaxes 121 

i.  Illustration 123 

CHAPTER  XX. 

THEOBETICAI,  CONSTRUCTION  (continued).  —  THE  FALL. 

1.  Object  of  the  Fall 124 

2.  Management  of  the  Fall 124 

3.  The  Fall  in  Comedy 124 

4.  Interposition  of  New  Obstacles 125 

5.  Emphasizing  Known  Obstacles 127 

6.  Necessary  Obstacles 128 

7.  Obstacles  resulting  from  the  Removal  of  Others. .  .129 

8.  The  Fall  in  Tragedy 131 

9.  Happy  Ending  suggested 132 

10.  Mediated  Tragedy 134 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION  (con^tnuerf). —  THE  CLOSE 
OR  CATASTROPHE. 

1.  Kinds  of  Close 135 

2.  The  Tragic  Catastrophe 135 

3.  Death  the  Result  of  Transgression 136 

4.  Management  of  the  Tragic  Catastrophe 136 

5.  The  Close  in  Comedy 138 

6.  Close  with  "  Gag  " 139 

7.  Address  to  Audience 140 

8.  Close  in  Mediated  Drama   141 

9.  General  Remarks  on  the  Close 141 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

THEATRICAL    CONVENTIONALITIES. 

1.  Importance  of  the  Subject 144 

2.  Kinds  of  Conventions 144 

3.  Point  of  View  of'"the  Audience 145 


XXU  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

4.  Stage  Distances 146 

5.  Changes  of  Scene  during  the  Act 147 

6.  Order  of  Scenes 147 

7.  Stage  Entrances 14H 

8.  Stage  Doors 150 

9.  Stage  Traditions 150 

10.  Stage  Time 150 

11.  Writing  Letters,  etc 151 

12.  Time  between  Acts 151 

13.  Conventionalities  of  the  Dialogpie 152 

14.  The  Monologue 152 

15.  The  Apart 152 

16.  The  Aside 154 

17.  The  Stage  Whisper 154 

18.  Relating  Known  Events 154 

19.  Unimportant   Dialogues 155 

20.  Costume 155 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

HOW  TO  WRITE  A  PLAY.  —  BLOCKING  OUT. 

1.  Getting  to  Work 157 

2.  Selection  of  the  Story 158 

3.  Expansion  of  the  Story 158 

4.  Questions  and  Answers 1.59 

5.  Importance  of  Taking  Notes 161 

6.  Arranging  the  Material. 162 

7.  Characters 162 

8.  Synopsis  of  Situations 164 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

HOW  TO  WBITE   A  F1.AY  (continued). —  REARRANGEMENT. 

1.  Order  of  Work 167 

2.  Exposition ...  168 

3.  What  is  to  be  Told 169 

4.  How  it  shall  be  Told 170 

5.  Preparing  for  Later  Incidents 174 

6.  Length  of  the  Exposition 174 

7.  Order  of  Incidents 175 

8.  Incidents  not  Represented  on  the  Stage 176 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  xxiii 

9.  Division  into  Acts 177 

10.  Principles  of  Division 177 

11.  Application  of  the  Principles 178 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

HOW  TO  WRITE  A  PLAT  (continued).  —  Fl^ilNQ  nf . 

1.  Outline  of  Scenes -  181 

2.  Order  of  Scenes 182 

3.  Connection  of  Scenes 182 

4.  Seqiaence  of  Scenes 183 

6.  Variety  of  S'-aes 183 

6.  Variety  of    ^motions 183 

7.  Number  and  Grouping  of  Characters 184 

8.  Variety  of  Exits  and  Enters 18t 

9.  Time  of  Characters  on  the  Stage 185 

10.  Opportunities  for  Dressing 185 

11.  Opportunities  for  Acting 18^ 

12.  Dialogue 136 


THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    THEATRE    STAFF. 

1.  Officers  and  Attaches.  —  The  organi- 

zation  of  every  well-equipped  theatre  includes 
the  following  officers  and  attaches. 

The  Officers  are  :  — 

(1.)  The  Manageb.  The  manager  has 
general  charge  and  oversight  of  the  theatre ; 
attends  to  the  engagement  of  the  company, 
if  the  theatre  supports  a  stock-company,^  to 
the  hooJcing  of  companies,'^  and  —  what  is  of 
most  consequence  to  the  playwright  —  decides 
upon  the  acceptance  of  plays  submitted  to  the 
theatre. 

(2.)  The  Assistant -]Max a ger.  In  the 
largest  theatres  there  is  usually  an  assistant- 
manager  who  transacts  routine  business,  and 
whose  principal  duties  consist  in  superintend- 
ing the  minor  details  of  the  general  manage- 
ment. 

*  See  Chapter  xiv.  5. 

^  Arranging  for  dates  when  companies  shall  prodaca 
their  plays. 


2  THE  ART   OF  PLAYWRITING. 

Every  company  on  the  road  ^  is  accompa- 
nied and  managed  by  a  road-manager.  These 
managers  either  attend  to  the  production  of 
plays  as  a  personal  speculation,  negotiating 
with  authors  for  the  sale  of  plays  or  the 
right  to  produce  the  same  on  certain  condi- 
tions, or  simply  manage  the  general  business 
of  stars,'  or  of  traveling  stock-companies. 

(3.)  The  Treasurer.  The  treasurer  has 
charge  of  all  the  moneys  received  or  ex- 
pended by  the  theatre.  His  principal  func- 
tion, however,  is  the  control  of  the  box-office,^ 
and  the  accounting  to  the  manager  of  the 
amount  received,  after  each  performance  of  a 
play. 

(4.)  The  Stage-Manager.  This  impor- 
tant functionary  has  entire  and  supreme  con- 
trol of  the  stage  during  the  rehearsal  *  and 
production  of  a  play.  He  personally  superin- 
tends rehearsals,  attending  to  every  detail,  — 
the  movements  and  the  grouping  of  the  actors 
for  situations,  scenes,  or  tableaus,^  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  general  stage-settings,^  the  pre- 
paring of  scene-plots  '  and  of  property-plots,^ 
etc.,  etc. 

^  A  traveling  company  producing  one  or  more  plays 

throughout  the  country. 

2  See  Chapter  xiii.  5. 

^  Frequently  called  the  ticket-office. 

*  The  recital  and  preparing  of  a  play  for  its  publia 
production. 

'  See  Chapter  x.  6.  ^  See  Chapter  iii.  12. 

'  See  Chapter  iiL  10.  ^  See  Chapter  iii.  11. 


THE  THEATRE  STAFF.  3 

A  good  stage-manager  has  almost  as  much 
to  do  with  the  success  of  a  play  as  the  actors 
themselves. 

All  stock-company  theatres  employ  a  stage- 
manager.  Theatres  that  simply  do  the  book- 
ing of  traveling  companies  have  a  local  stage- 
manager,  whose  duties  are  more  limited,  and 
who,  alone  or  in  connection  with  the  visiting 
stage-manager,  prepares  the  stage  for  the  pro- 
duction of  the  play  to  be  given. 

(5.)  The  Eeader.  Some  of  the  metropoli- 
tan theatres  that  are  in  the  habit  of  bringing 
out  original  plays  employ  a  professional 
reader  ^  of  plays,  who  examines  all  the  man- 
uscripts submitted  to  the  theatre,  rejects  those 
that  are  hopelessly  inferior,  and  recommends 
to  the  manager's  attention  such  as  are  avail- 
able, or  can  be  made  so  by  revision. 

2.  The  Attaches.  —  Persons  of  lesser  im- 
portance connected  with  the  theatre  are  :  — 

(1.)  The  Property-Man.  The  business 
of  the  property-man  is  to  care  for  all  the  arti- 
cles, miscellaneous  objects  of  all  kinds,  furni- 
ture, appendages,  etc.,  known  as  properties,^ 
used  in  the  production  of  plays. 

(2.)  The  Fly-Man.  The  fly-man  attends 
to  the  shifting  and  dropping  of  such  scenery 
as  can  be  handled  from  the  rigging-loft,  or 
files} 

^  All  manviscripts  should  be  sent  to  the  reader.  If  a 
play  is  rejected  by  him,  an  appeal  to  the  manager  ia 
useless. 

3  See  Chapter  ii.  11.      ^  See  Chapter  u.  3,  (4)  and  (5). 


4  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

(3.)  The  Gas-Man.  The  gas-man  regu- 
lates the  light  on  the  stage  and  in  the  audi- 
torium during  the  production  of  a  play. 

The  term  is  still  retained,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  electricity  has,  in  many  theatres, 
taken  the  place  of  gas  as  a  means  of  illumi- 
nation. 

(4.)  The  Scene  -  Shifter.  The  scene- 
shifter  handles  such  scenery  as  can  be  moved 
in  the  wings} 

(5.)  The  Stage-Carpenter.  The  stage- 
carpenter,  besides  doing  the  general  construc- 
tion and  repairing  of  the  stage  and  the 
appurtenances,  has  special  duties  during  the 
progress  of  the  play.  He  attends  to  the  me- 
chanical details  of  the  stage-setting,  such  as 
the  building  iip  of  elaborate  set-pieces,*  runs,' 
stairways,  etc.,  to  the  movement  of  machin- 
ery representing  waves,  moving  vessels  and 
the  like,  and  is  constantly  on  hand  in  the 
wings  to  superintend  the  shifting  of  compli- 
cated scenery. 

(6.)  The  Ticket  -  Taker.  The  ticket- 
taker  attends  to  the  taking  of  the  tickets  at 
the  entrance  of  the  auditorium,  and  accounts 
to  the  treasurer  after  the  performance. 

(7.)  The  Backdoor-Keeper.  The  back- 
door-keeper guards  all  the  entrances  to  the 

^  See  Chapter  ii.  7.  *  See  Chapter  iii.  5. 

^  See  Chapter  iii.  9. 


THE  THEATRE  STAFF.  5 

stage  (but  especially  what  is  known  as  the 
stage  entrance  *),  during  the  performance. 

(8.)  The  Head-Usher.  The  head-usher 
and  his  assistants  seat  the  audience. 

(9.)  The  Director  of  the  Orchestra. 
The  director  of  the  orchestra  has  charge  of 
the  orchestra,  and  consults  with  the  stage- 
manager  about  the  music  to  be  played  during 
the  performance,  in  accordance  with  certain 
cues.^ 

*  The  entrance  admitting  the  actors  to  the  stage  'witli- 
out  passing  through  the  auditorium. 

2  The  last  word  of  a  speech  which  a  player  is  to  an- 
swer. A  music  cue  is  taken  up  hy  the  orchestia  as  it 
would  be  on  the  stage  by  an  actor. 


CHAPTER  IL 

/ 

THE    STAGE. 

1.  The  Boards.  —  In  a  limited  sense,  the 
word  stage  signifies  the  floor,  or  the  boards, 
on  which  theatrical  performances  are  exhib- 
ited, as  distinct  from  the  auditorium ;  hence 
the  expression  to  go  on  the  boards,  meaning  to 
become  an  actor. 

2.  The  Stage.  —  In  its  more  extended 
meaning  the  word  stage  is  applied  to  all  that 
region  which  lies  back  of  the  proscenium,^  of 
which  space  the  visible  stage  occupies  but  a 
very  small  portion. 

3.  Parts  of  the  Stage.  —  The  stage  has 
some  nine  distinct  parts,  as  follows  :  — 

(1.)  The  stage  proper,  where  the  action  of 
the  play  takes  place. 

(2.)  The  proscenium,  the  frontispiece,  or 
front  part  of  the  stage,  i.  e.,  all  that  is  left 
exposed  to  the  view  of  the  audience  when  the 
curtain  is  down. 

(3.)  The  wings,  a  series  of  chambers  or 
platforms  on  each  side  of  the  stage  proper. 

(4.)  The  flies,  the  space  above  the  curtain 
and  extending  over  the  whole  of  the  stage. 

^  See  this  chapter,  farther  on,  3,  (2). 


THE  STAGE.  7 

(5.)  The  rigging-loft,  the  same  space  occu- 
pied by  the  flies,  but  considered  with  partic- 
ular reference  to  the  machinery  contained  in 
it. 

(6.)  The  dock,  the  space  under  the  whole 
area  of  the  stage-floor. 

(7.)  The  green-room,  a  survival  of  the  old 
tireynge-house,  or  tireynge-room,  where  the 
actors  assemble,  awaiting  the  time  for  the  per- 
formance to  begin,  or  to  which  they  retire 
when  not  needed  on  the  stage. 

The  popular  conception  of  the  green-room 
as  a  sort  of  promiscuous  dressing-room  is 
absurdly  fallacious. 

(8.)  The  property-room,  where  are  kept  the 
miscellaneous  objects  used  on  the  stage,  ex- 
cepting scenery  and  sets  of  furniture, 

(9.)  The  dressing-roovis,  where  the  perform- 
ers dress  for  and  during  the  performance  of 
the  play. 

4.  The  Stage  Proper.  — The  action  of  the 
play  usually  takes  place  on  the  floor  called 
the  stage  proper.  This  floor  slopes  upwards 
and  away  from  the  audience,  thus  gaining  the 
effect  of  foreshortening,  and  so  appearing 
deeper  than  it  really  is. 

5.  The  Stage-Cloth.  —  The  floor  of  the 
stage  proper  is  usually  covered  with  a  green 
cloth,  unless  other  furnishing,  such  as  carpets, 
rugs,  etc.,  are  called  for  by  the  play.  When 
the  cloth  is  to  be  used,  the  technical  expres- 
sion cloth  down  should  be  inserted  in  the  manu- 
script at  the  beginning  of  the  act. 


8  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

6.  The  Proscenium.  —  The  proscenium 
varies  in  size  in  different  theatres,  being  some- 
times reduced  to  a  mere  strip  not  a  yard  in 
width.  On  the  side  nearest  the  audience  are 
the  foot-lights,  a  series  of  lights  casting  a  pow- 
erful reflection  on  the  lower  part  of  the  stage. 
Though  foot-lights  are  still  in  common  use, 
different  and  better  systems  of  lighting  up 
the  stage  have  of  late  been  devised. 

The  proscenium  in  many  metropolitan 
theatres  has  on  each  side  one  or  more  series 
of  boxes,  i.  e.  seats  inclosed  so  as  to  form 
small  private  parlors  overlooking  the  stage. 

In  front  of  the  foot-lights  and  below  the 
level  of  the  stage  is  seated  the  orchestra,  the 
conductor's  seat  being  on  a  platform  elevated 
above  the  seats  of  the  rest  of  the  orchestra. 
Various  mechanical  and  other  devices  are  now 
in  use  for  concealing  the  orchestra  either  in 
a  portion  of  the  dock  or  in  the  flies. 

7.  The  Wings.  —  The  space  on  each  side 
of  the  stage,  from  the  side  walls  of  the  the- 
atre to  the  scenery  when  set  up  for  a  play, 
is  called  the  wings.  The  space  in  the  wings 
varies  according  to  the  amount  of  actual  space 
required  for  the  performance  of  the  play. 

In  most  theatres,  the  greater  part  of  the 
scenery  is  kept  in  the  wings  or  at  back,  i.  e., 
against  the  back  wall  of  the  stage. 

There  is  a  tendency  in  the  larger  theatres  to 
do  away  with  the  storing  of  scenery  in  the 
wings,  all  or  most  of  the  different  pieces  of 


THE  STAGE.  9 

scenery  being  made  to  ascend  from  the  dock, 
or  to  descend  from  the  flies. 

8.  The  Flies.  —  In  the  larger  theatres,  the 
flies  take  up  the  greater  portion  of  the  stage, 
not  only  extending  over  the  whole  region, 
but  going  up  several  stories  to  fully  double  the 
height  of  the  proscenium  arcli. 

In  the  flies  are  found  the  rows  of  wind- 
lasses, rigging,  etc.,  used  for  the  raising  or 
lowering  of  the  scenery.  The  parts  of  the 
flies  occupied  by  this  machinery  are  termed 
the  rigging-loft. 

9.  The  Dock.  —  The  region  under  the 
stage  called  the  dock  is  also,  in  the  largest 
theatres,  divided  into  several  stories  by  suc- 
cessive floors.  Here  is  found  the  machinery 
for  operating  the  traps,^  raising  and  lowering 
scenery  through  the  stage,  etc. 

10.  The  Green-Room. —  The  green-room 
is  a  luxury  not  always  found  in  smaller  the- 
atres ;  and  even  in  larger  theatres,  private 
parlors  connected  with  the  dressing  -  rooms 
are  preferred  to  one  larger  room,  some  the- 
atres combining  both. 

11.  The  Property-Room.  —  The  property- 
room  is  a  repository  for  the  innumerable  ob- 
jects handled,  sat  on,  broken,  thrown  about, 
or  pointed  at  during  the  progress  of  the  play. 
Here  are  to  be  found  Hamlet's  ''recorders," 
Shylock's  knife,  Juliet's  vial  of  poison, 
Prospero's  wand,  Richelieu's  manuscript,  the 

1  See  this  chapter,  farther  on,  13. 


10  THE  ART   OF  PLAYWRITING. 

brass  money  that  Armand  flings  at  Camille, 
and  the  tin  dagger  with  which  Brutus  stabs 
Caesar,  —  not  to  mention  rubber  turkeys, 
pasteboard  beakers,  papier-mache  legs-of-mut- 
ton,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  realistic  though 
deceptive  articles  that  go  to  make  up  the  cus- 
tomary stage  banquet. 

It  is  well  for  the  playwright  to  remember 
that  in  most  of  the  smaller  theatres  the  list  of 
properties  includes  only  the  articles  most  com- 
monly used  upon  the  stage.  Costly  proper- 
ties, or  articles  that  are  hard  to  obtain  outside 
of  large  cities,  should,  if  possible,  be  avoided. 

12.  The  Dressing-Rooms.  —  The  dress- 
ing-rooms are  located  where  they  will  occupy 
the  least  possible  space.  While  in  many  of 
the  larger  theatres  these  rooms  are  actual 
boudoirs,  easy  of  access  from  the  stage,  in. 
most  of  the  smaller  ones  they  are  bare,  car- 
petless  boxes,  situated  without  regard  to  the 
actor's  convenience,  in  the  flies,  in  the  dock, 
on  the  side  of  the  stage,  or  midway  between 
the  floor  and  the  rigging-loft. 

13.  The  Traps.  —  The  traps  are  holes  cut 
through  the  stage-floor,  and  furnished  with 
apparatus  by  means  of  which  an  actor  may  be 
slowly  or  rapidly  elevated  from  below  to  the 
level  of  the  stage,  or  in  the  same  manner 
lowered  from  the  stage  into  the  dock. 

It  is  impossible  to  go  into  details  regarding 
the  different  kinds  of  traps.  Some  of  the 
modern  stages  are  literally  honeycombed  with 


II 


THE  STAGE.  11 

them,  so  that  in  any  quarter  of  the  stage  there 
can  be  made  to  open  a  hole  just  large  enough 
to  admit  a  gas-pipe,  or  a  gaping  chasm  capable 
of  swallowing  up  a  (canvas)  city. 

The  term  trap  is  also  applied  to  openings 
cut  in  the  scenery  for  the  sudden  appearance 
or  disappearance  of  performers. 

14.  Dimensions  of  the  Stage.  —  Stages 
are  of  various  dimensions,  according  to  whether 
they  are  built  for  general  or  special  purposes. 
Stages  that  have  neither  complete  rigging- 
lofts  nor  docks  are  not  well  adapted  to  the 
production  of  spectacular  plays.^ 

The  dimensions  of  the  smaller  theatres 
throughout  the  country  will  average  about  as 
follows  :  — 

(1.)  Width  of  stage,  including'  •wings  .     .  65  f t, 
(2.)  Depth  from  the  foot-lights  to  back 

•wall  of  stage  .         .        .        .        .  30  f t. 
(3.)  Height  of  rigging-loft  .         ,         .        40  f t. 
(4.)  Space  above  rigging-loft  .         .         .     5  f t. 
Theatres  of  the  above  dimensions  seldom 
have  a  dock  of  more  than  one  story. 

1  See  Chapter  tIIL  1L 


CHAPTEE  IIL 

THE   SCENEKY. 

1.  Stage  Scenery.  —  The  various  paint- 
ings or  other  representations  of  inanimate 
nature  required  for  the  production  of  a  play 
—  excepting  what  conies  under  the  head  of 
properties  and  furniture  —  constitute  the 
scenery. 

As  it  is  not  within  the  scope  of  this  book  to 
describe  in  detail  the  different  kinds  of  scen- 
ery used  for  theatrical  performances,  this 
chapter  will  deal  only  with  such  features  of 
the  subject  as  are  of  special  interest  to  the 
dramatist. 

2.  Different  kinds  of  Scenery.  —  There 
are  four  important  kinds  of  scenery :  — 

(1.)  The  drops. 

(2.)  The  flats  and  wood-cuts. 

(3.)  The  set-pieces. 

(4.)  The  borders. 

3.  The  Drops.  —  The  drops  are  usually 
painted  canvases  let  down  from  the  flies. 
Since  they  have  no  wooden  frames,  they  are 
often  termed  cloths. 

The  principal  cloths  are :  — 


THE  SCENERY.  13 

(1.)  The  green  curtain,  lowered  when  the 
play  is  over.^ 

(2.)  Tlhe  front  curtain,  or  act  drop,  which  is 
down  until  the  play  opens,  and  is  lowered  at 
the  end  of  each  act. 

(3.)  Back,  or  scene  cloths,  lowered  at  various 
distances  from  the  front,  usually  to  represent 
the  vista  of  exteriors. 

4.  The  Flats  and  Wood-cuts.  —  Under 
the  heads  of  flats  and  wood-cuts  come  all 
structures  of  canvas  stretched  tightly  on 
wooden  frames. 

In  the  larger  theatres,  flats  are  usually  made 
of  one  piece,  arranged  so  as  to  be  let  down 
from  the  flies  like  drops,  or  pushed  up  from 
the  docks.  When  removed,  they  are  said  to 
be  whipped  off. 

In  most  theatres,  flats  are  made  in  two  cor- 
responding pieces  intended  to  be  pushed  out 
in  the  grooves '  from  the  wings,  and  to  join 
in  the  middle  so  as  to  form  one  continuous 
scene. 

Wood-cuts  are  structures  of  canvas  stretched 
on  wooden  frames,  cut  so  as  to  represent  or- 
namental pieces,  such  as  arches,  trees,  etc. 
They  have  a  variety  of  other  names,  as  cut- 
woods,  side-scenes,  and  wing-cuts. 

In  exteriors,^  where  they  are  mostly  used, 
they  form  the  scenery  visible  on  each  side  of 

^  Moat  theatres  have  no  green  curtain. 

*  See  this  chapter,  farther  on,  8. 

*  See  Chapter  vi.  1. 


14  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

the  stage,  constituting  the  various  entrances  * 
to  the  stage  proper. 

5.  The  Set-pieces.  —  A  set-piece  is  a  struc- 
ture built  out  from  a  flat,  or  standing  isolated 
on  the  stage. 

Among  the  many  different  set-pieces  the 
ones  most  commonly  used  are :  — 

(1.)  Set  houses. 

(2.)  Set  trees. 

(3.)  Set  rocks. 

(4.)  Set  mounds. 

(5.)  Set  water. 

Everything  on  the  stage  that  can  actually 
be  used  is  called  practicable  (sometimes  short- 
ened to  practical).  Thus  a  set  house  is  prac- 
ticable if  it  can  be  used  as  an  enter  or  exit ;  ' 
a  window,  if  it  can  be  opened  and  shut;  a 
mound,  if  it  can  be  used  as  a  seat,  etc.  In 
set  houses  one  window  and  one  door  are  usu- 
ally made  practicable,  the  rest  being  merely 
painted. 

6.  The  Borders.  —  The  borders  comprise 
the  scenery  let  down  from  the  flies  to  a  point 
just  below  the  level  of  the  proscenium  arch, 
so  as  to  conceal  the  rigging-loft.  They  are 
used  to  represent  clouds,  the  sky,  ceilings, 
tops  of  trees,  etc.,  and  are  called  cut-borders 
when  they  allow  objects  behind  to  be  seen 
tbvough  them.  Cut-borders  are  usually  tree- 
tops. 

*  See  Chapter  vi.  plan  No.  1. 

*  See  Cliapter  xi.  and  xii.,  abo  plan  1,  Chapter  vi. 


4 


THE  SCENERY.  15 

7.  A  Bunch-light.  —  A  bunch  -  light  is 
formed  by  a  number  of  lights  bunched  to- 
gether, supported  by  a  rod  and  placed  wher- 
ever necessary.  When  a  "  calcium  "  is  neces- 
sary, the  gas-man  is  told  to  **  get  his  calcium 
on."  These  lights  are  used  to  produce  certain 
stage  effects,  such  as  moonlight  through  win- 
dows, etc. 

8.  The  Grooves.  —  The  side-scenes  (them- 
selves sometimes  called  xvings)  when  pushed 
out  from  the  sides  of  the  stage,  are  supported 
at  the  top  by  a  series  of  grooves  built  out 
from  the  rigging-loft,  and  at  the  bottom  by  a 
similar  series  constructed  on  the  floor  of  the 
stage.  Scenery  thus  shifted  is  said  to  be  run 
on.  Sets  of  grooves  vary  in  number  from  four 
to  six. 

9.  A  Run.  —  A  run  is  a  wooden  inclined 
plane  coming  down  towards  the  front  of  the 
stage.     A  run  is  always  practicable. 

10.  A  Scene-Plot.  —  A  scene-plot  is  the 
plan,  or  prepared  appearance,  on  paper,  of 
the  stage  when  all  the  scenery  has  been 
located  for  an  act  or  scene.  It  also  includes 
the  location  of  all  the  furniture  needed  for 
the  action  of  the  play  in  each  act  or  scene. 

11.  A  Property-Plot.  —  A  property-plot  is 
a  list  of  the  various  articles  required  in  each 
act. 

12.  The  Setting  of  a  Play.  —  The  setting 
of  a  play  consists  in  preparing  the  scene-plots 
for  each  act,  scene,  or  tableau,  and  also  mak- 
ing out  the  list  for  the  property-plots. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

STAGE    DIKECTIONS. 

1.  Lines  and  Business.  —  The  following 
passage  from  Bronson  Howard's  Saratoga 
will  be  used  to  illustrate  what  we  have  to  say 
under  this  head :  — 

[Enter  Lucy  L.  2  E.  rapidly.] 

Lucy.     Effie  —  Virginia  —  Mrs.  Alston  ! 

Ejfie.     Oh  —  Virginia  —  Lucy  —  Olivia  ! 

[Ladies  moving  to  and  fro.^ 
Mrs.  Alston.     Oh  —  Jack  —  my  dear  Jack  —  My  first 
love  !      [Sinks  into  a  chair,  C] 

Virginia.  Frank  —  my  last  love !  [S/nis  beside 
her,  L] 

Lucy.     My  hosband !     [Sinks  beside  her,  R.] 
Effie.      [Standing  back  of  her  chair,    C]      Robert !  \ 
J'aime  que  toi  —  my  only  love  ! 

[Ladies  all  choke,  and  then  burst  into  simultaneous  sobs.] 
Tableau. 
Curtain. 

2.  Analysis    of    the    Illustration.  —  A 

brief  examination  will  show  that  the  above 
extract  is  made  up  of  two  kinds  of  matter:  — 

(1.)  The  words  that  are  put  into  the  mouths 
of  the  characters. 

(2.)  The  various  directions,  such  as  enteVf 
sinks  into  a  chair,  etc. 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS.  17 

3.  The  Lines.  —  The  first  are  technically 
known  as  the  lines,  that  is,  the  dialogue. 

4.  The  Business.  —  The  second,  called 
the  business  of  the  play,  includes  all  move- 
ments, gestures,  inarticulate  utterances,  etc., 
with  which  the  actor  accompanies  the  "  read- 
ing "  (i.  e.,  the  speaking)  of  the  lines. 

Only  the  most  essential  business  need  be 
indicated  in  the  manuscript.  Much  will  be 
implied  in  the  wording  of  the  lines ;  still  more 
must  be  left  to  the  option  of  the  actor.  It  is 
a  rule,  however,  that  all  the  exits  and  enters  * 
should  be  carefully  inserted  at  the  proper 
points  in  the  lines. 

Stage  directions  is  a  wider  term  than  busi- 
ness, including  movements  of  scenery^  and 
stage  appendages ;  as,  e.  g.,  the  word  "  cur- 
tain "  at  the  close  of  the  passage  quoted. 

5.  Kinds  of  Business.  —  The  amount  of 
business  deemed  necessary  to  be  inserted  in 
the  manuscript  varies  greatly  with  different 
playwrights.  The  following  classification  in- 
cludes the  most  essential  business  of  a  play  : 

(1.)  Location  of  characters  at  rise. 

(2.)  Enters  and  exits. 

(3.)  Location  of  characters  during  the  act. 

(4.)  Incidents  of  the  play. 

(5.)  Location  of  characters  at  "curtain." 

6.  At  Rise.  —  Characters  on  the  stage  at 
the  moment  the  curtain  rises,  are  said  to  be 
discovered  at  rise.     It  is  usual  to  indicate  at 

^  See  Chapters  sd.  and  xiL  ^  See  Chapter  iii. 


18  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

the  beginning  of  the  act  whatever  is  peculiar 
in  their  positions  or  occupations.  For  exam- 
ple, at  the  opening  of  the  third  act  of  London 
Assurance,  Max  and  Sir  Harcourt,  Dazzle, 
Grace  and  Charles  Courtly  are  discovered  at 
rise. 

The  stage  directions  run  :  — 

"  Max  and  Sir  Harcourt  seated  at  one  side,  Dazzle  on 
the  other.  Grace  and  young  Courtly  playing  chess  at 
back.^^ 

7.  Enters  and  Exits.  —  The  exact  mo- 
ment at  which  each  character  comes  on  or 
goes  oft"  the  stage  must  be  carefully  indicated 
by  the  terms  enter  or  exit  (plural  exeunt)  in- 
serted at  the  appropriate  point  in  the  lines  or 
the  other  stage  directions.^ 

8.  Location  of  Characters  during  the 
act.  —  Every  significant  action  of  the  charac- 
ters during  the  act  should  be  indicated  in  the 
manuscript.  Further,  it  is  often  desirable  to 
point  out  the  exact  location  on  the  stage  at 
which  the  action  takes  place. 

There  are  two  methods  of  doing  this :  — 

(1.)  By  reference  to  objects  upon  the  stage, 
as  tables,  chairs,  scenery,  the  other  characters, 
etc. 

(2.)  By  means  of  conventional  abbrevia- 
tions referring  to  particular  portions  of  the 
stage  itself. 

The  first  method  requires  no  explanation. 

*  For  further  treatment  of  this  important  topic,  flee 
Chapters  xi.  and  xii. 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS.  19 

If  a  character  is  to  hide  behind  a  piano  or 
mount  a  table,  the  stage  directions  will  be 
"  hides  behind  piano,''^  ^'  Jumps  on  table,^' 
etc. 

If  the  exact  position  with  reference  to  the 
object  is  of  importance,  it  should  be  included 
in  the  stage  direction,  as  :  "  stands  at  left  of 
table,^^  "  leans  over  gate,"  etc. 

The  terms  used  in  referring  to  particular 
portions  of  the  stage,  together  with  the  com- 
mon abbreviations,  are  given  in  the  following 
tables  and  diagrams  :  — 


R.  /       C.       \  L. 

__  1^5^?.  -t. °2 ^"-^^tlSj 


B.C.  /  C.         \  L  C. 


FRONT. 

c. 


9.  Meaning  of  Abbreviations.  —  In  plays 

actually  intended  for  the  stage,  abbreviations 
only  are  used. 

C. Centre. 

R Right. 

L Left. 

R.  C Rig-ht  centre. 

L.  C.    .         .         .         .         .         .  Left  centre. 

The  words  Bear  (or  Back)  and  Front  are 
always  written  in  full. 


20 


THE  ART  OF  PLAY  WRITING. 


10.  Plan  with  Entrances.  —  The  stage 
is  further  subdivided  as  shown  in  the  follow- 
ing plan :  — 


D.R.C.      CD.       DX.C. 


L.U.E. 


L.-l-E. 


L.3E. 


\       \        L.2E. 


L.C 


'.L.\ 


LIE. 


11.  Meaning  of  Abbreviations.  —  The 
word  entrance  signifies  the  place  at  which  a 
character  may  make  his  appearance  on  the 
stage  from  the  rear  (or  back)  or  from  the 
wings. 


CD.           .        . 

Centre  door. 

D.  R.  C.         .        . 

.    l3oor  right  of  centre. 

D.  L.  C.     . 

Door  left  of  centre. 

R.  1  E.  . 

.     Right  first  entrance. 

R.  2  E.       . 

Right  second  entrance. 

R.  3E.   . 

.     Riglit  third  entrance. 

R.  4  E.       . 

Right  fourth  entrance 

R.  U.  E.         .        . 

.    Right  upper  entrance. 

L.  1  E.      . 

Left  first  entrance. 

L.  2  E. 

.     Left  second  entrance. 

L.  3  E. 

Left  third  entrance. 

L.  4  E.  . 

.     Left  fourth  entrance. 

L.  U.  E.     . 

Left  upper  entrance. 

Combining   the   two   plans,   the  following 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS.  21 

abbreviations  and  stage  directions    can    be 
used :  — 


R.  rear,  or  back. 

R.  front. 

L.  rear,  or  back. 

L.  frout. 

R.  C.  rear,  or  back. 

L.  C.  front. 

G.  rear,  or  back. 

C.  front. 

By  comparing  the  two  plans,  it  will  be 
noticed  that  the  right  and  left  are  subdivided 
into  right  center  and  left  center. 

12.  The  Tormentors.  —  The  first  en- 
trances, right  and  left,  are  called  the  tor- 
mentors. Some  writers,  however,  use  1  E. 
for  the  first  entrance  back  of  the  tormentor. 

Very  few  plays  require  more  than  five  en- 
trances from  the  wing.  The  upper  entrances 
are  usually  the  fourth  entrances,  for  full 
stage. 

The  terms  right  and  left  are  taken  some- 
times from  the  actor's  right  and  left  hand  as 
he  faces  the  audience,  sometimes  from  the 
right  and  left  hand  of  the  spectator.  The 
former  is  the  prevailing  custom. 

Sometimes  V.  (Prompter's  side)  is  used  for 
right,  and  0.  P.  (opposite  Prompter's  side) 
for  left. 

13.  Movement  of  Characters  during  the 
Act.  —  Certain  movements  of  characters  on 
the  stage  are  designated  as  follows  :  — 

(1.)  To  go  up. 
(2.)  To  come  down. 
(3.)  To  cross  over. 


22  THE  ART  OF   PLAYWRITING. 

14.  Going  up.  —  When  a  character  moves 
towards  the  back  of  the  stage,  he  is  said  to  go 
up. 

15.  Coming  down. — When  a  character 
moves  towards  the  foot-lights,  he  is  said  to 
come  down. 

16.  Crossing  over.  —  When  a  character 
goes  from  one  side  of  the  stage  to  the  other, 
he  is  said  to  cross  over. 

These  terms  may  be  combined  with  the  ab- 
breviations given  above  to  denote  the  part  of 
the  stage  at  which  the  movement  takes  place, 
for  example  :  — 

(1.)  Coming  down  C.  means  moving  to- 
wards the  front  through  the  centre  of  the 
stage. 

(2.)  Going  up  R.  means  moving  towards 
the  rear  on  the  right  hand  side. 

(3.)  Crosses  over  R.  means  that  the  charac- 
ter is  to  move  towards  the  right  hand  side. 

(4.)  Crosses  over  L.  C.  means  that  the 
character  moves  from  right  to  left  centre. 

17.  Exercise  in  Stage  Movements.  — 
The  student  will  find  the  Avorking  out  of  the 
ibllowing  directions,  with  the  aid  of  the  dia- 
grams, an  excellent  method  of  familiarizing 
himself  with  the  foregoing  terms  and  abbre- 
viations :  — 

A.  and  B.  represent  two  characters. 
A.  and  B.  discovered  at  rise. 
A.  sitting  at  L.  of  table  R.  C. 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS.  23 

B.  standing  at  R.  of  desk  near  L.  3  E. 

A.  rises  and  crosses  over  to  L.  C. 

B.  comes  down  L. 

A.  and  B.  go  up  to  L.  U.  E. 
A.  and  B.  cross  over  to  R.  3  E. 

A.  goes  up  to  D.  C. 

B.  comes  down  R. 

A.  comes  down  to  L.  1  E. 

B.  crosses  over  to  L. 

A.  and  B.  cross  over  to  R.  1  E. 

A.  goes  up  to  D.  L.  C. 

B.  crosses  over  and  goes  up  to  L.  3  B. 
A.  and  B.  come  down  C. 

A.  and  B.  go  up,  A.  L.  and  B.  R. 

Exeunt  A.  and  B.,  A.  D.  L.  C,  B.  D.  R.  C. 

18.  Incidents.  —  Almost  every  significant 
event  that  takes  place  in  the  course  of  a  play 
will  call  for  some  stage  direction.  Especially 
is  this  the  case  when  several  characters  are 
supposed  to  do  the  same  thing  simultane- 
ously. Of  this  class  are  the  expressions, 
"  ladies  moving  to  and  fro,"  —  "  ladies  all 
choke,"  etc.,  in  the  passage  above  quoted. 
As  the  number  of  things  that  may  happen  on 
the  stage  is  practically  infinite,  no  general 
rules  can  be  given. 

The  beginner  should  be  cautioned  against 
cumbering  his  manuscript  with  detailed  de- 
scriptions, or  with  directions  for  trivial  and 
unimportant  actions. 

19.  Minor   Business.  —  Among  the  less 


24  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWKITING. 

important  stage  directions  may  be  reckoned 
those  pertaining  to  :  — 

(1.)  Asides  and  Aparts.^ 

(2.)  Dumb  show. 

(3.)  Quick,  slow,  and  half -slow  curtain. 

(4.)  Change  of  scene,  whistle  scene,  etc. 

(5.)  Music. 

(6.)  Lights  up. 

(7.)  Lights  down. 

(8.)  Noises  outside. 

(9.)  Gestures. 

(10.)  Facial  expression. 

(11.)  Tone  of  voice. 

Of  these  the  first  is  indispensable,  the  sec- 
ond, third,  fourth,  fifth,  sixth,  seventh  and 
eighth,  almost  so.  All  of  these  should  be 
incorporated  in  the  manuscript.  The  rest 
must  be  left  to  the  discretion  of  the  play- 
wright, who  may,  in  most  instances,  save  time 
and  labor,  by  leaving  them  in  turn  to  the 
imagination  of  the  actor. 

^  See  Chapter  xxil.  15  and  16. 


CHAPTER  V. 

STAGE    PLANS. 

1.  Interiors.  —  In  stage  language  an  int&' 
rior  means  an  in-door  scene. 

Tlie  plans  given  below  are  subject  to  nu- 
merous modifications,  according  to  the  nature 
of  the  interior  called  for  by  the  play. 


/ 

Plan  No. 

1. 

/  - 

BACK  CLOTH   or 

DROP 

\ 

/ 

j         K.C.           C. 

L.C 

"y                    \ 

/       R.Ui. 

L.UE.       1 

/         / 

\          \ 

/        B.3E. 

L.3  E.        \ 

/         / 

\                    \ 

/       T?.  e  x, 

L.2E.       \ 

/               / 

\                    \ 

/  -       R.l  B 

PBOSCENII.TM. 

L.IE.        \ 

/ 

The  terms  right  and  left,  as  used  in  these 
plans,  are  taken  with  reference  to  one  stand- 
ing on  the  stage  and  facing  the  audience. 

2.  Doors  and  Windows.  —  In  the  above 
plan  the  entrances  can  be  either  doors  or  win- 
dows. In  the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  a 
window  is  not  an  entrance,  though  it  may  be 
used  to  enter  or  leave  the  stage. 


26 


THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 


3.  Number  of  Entrances.  —  The  toriiient« 
ors,  i.  e.,  the  entrances  E,.  1  E,  and  L.  1  E.,  do 
not  form  a  part  of  the  room  proper,  and  are 
used  exclusively  for  enters  and  exits. 

The  three  entrances  at  rear  are  usually 
doors.  If  the  plan  calls  for  a  number  of  win- 
dows, they  will  be  marked  as  windows  in  the 
stage-setting.  For  example,  if  the  L.  3  E.  is 
a  window,  the  description  will  read  as  fol- 
lows :  Doors  L.l,2&  U.  E.  ;  window  L.  3  E. 

Plan  No.  2. 


4.  Plan  with  Run.  —  In  Plan  No.  2,  the 
space  between  R.  2  E.  and  flat  near  C.  is  a 
run.  The  dotted  line  shows  where  the  run 
joins  the  stage.  At  the  back  is  a  flat  from 
which  a  set  scene,  with  door  at  C,  projects 
upon  the  stage.  The  run  may  be  used  for  the 
following  purposes  :  — 

(1.)  It  may  be  a  glimpse  into  a  conserva- 
tory. 

(2.)  It  may  be  a  stairway  with  adjoining 
halL 


STAGE  PLANS.  27 

(3.)  It  may  be  a  small  boudoir  with  a  few 
steps  leading  to  it. 

A  small  recess  in  an  interior  should  always 
be  a  run,  or  be  elevated  above  the  main  floor 
of  the  stage. 

What  has  been  said  of  Plan  No.  1  will  also 
apply  to  Plan  No.  2. 

Back  or  side  cloths  in  interiors  are  in- 
tended to  conceal  the  walls  of  the  stage. 

A  great  number  of  plans  for  interiors 
should  be  drawn  by  the  student,  bearing  the 
following  rules  in  mind  :  — 

(a.)  Beception  or  ball  rooms  require  the 
full  stage,  with  three  large  entrances  at  back. 

(b.)  Rooms  in  which  the  action  of  the  play 
requires  the  presence    of  several  character 
should  be  set  from  1  E.  to  3  E. 

(c.)  No  interior  —  excepting  for  short 
scenes  ^  —  should  be  limited  to  1  E. 

(d.)  Interiors  for  small  parlor,  laborer's  cot- 
tage, boudoir,  etc.,  should  be  set  between  1  E. 
and  2  E. 

(e.)  Arches  and  portieres  should  always  be 
practicable,  unless  a  portiere  is  intended  as  a 
hiding-place  only. 

(/.)  Avoid  using  the  tormentors,  as  they 
lead  to  nowhere. 

(g.)  Let  the  student  "  furnish  "  the  above 
interiors,  thus  preparing  scene-plots.^ 

1  See  Chapter  xjdi.  6. 

"^  Directions  for  scene-plots  will  be  given  at  the  end  of 
the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

STAGE  PLANS  (continued). 

1.  Exteriors.  —  An  exterior  is  an  out-dooi 
scene. 

The  plans  given  below  are  very  elemen- 
tary. Stage-settings  for  exteriors  can  be  very 
elaborate,  representing  not  only  street  and 
garden  scenes,  but  ocean  and  mountain  pic- 
tures, with  many  practicable  features. 


Plan  No.  1. 

/          BACK  CLOTH -GARDEN  PERSPECTIVE.             \ 

/ru.e. 

I.  trx.  \ 

/          #n»EE9                               hovseA 

\ 

/b.*e. 

•WOT  VBACTICABm 

\ 

[GARDEN  SCENE.] 

1-.8E.  \ 
\               \ 

1              =  TBCZS. 

SETHCJUSE.    \ 

^DOOR.    \ 

/».2E.^ 

i>bacticabi.e! 

l\\l..2B.  \ 

/               =   TB££9. 

^        \ 

/  p  iz"^ 

•pBOSCErNITJM. 

v \ 

L.IE,.     \ 

'                     \ 

^ 

2.  General  Remarks. — The  two  exteriors 
represented  in  these  plans  differ  in  many  re- 
spects. The  following  are  the  principal  points 
the  student  should  notice  :  — 

(1.)  Both  settings  have  back  cloths. 

(2.)  Plan  No.  1,  at  left,  has  two  houses, 
one  of  which  is  a  set  house  with  practicable 
4oor. 


STAGE    PLANS.  29 

(3.)  Plan  No.  2,  at  right  and  left,  has  rows 
of  houses,  none  of  which  are  practicable. 

(4.)  Plan  No.  1,  at  right,  has  no  flats,  the 
trees  between  the  entrances  being  wood-cuts 
pushed  on  the  stage  from  the  wings. 

Plan  No.  2. 


BACK  CLOTH  -  STREET  FEBSPECTIVE 


% 


STPEET  SCENE 


PROSCENIUM. 


3.  Additional  Abbreviations  for  Stage- 
Settings.  —  The  student  being  now  familiar 
with  elementary  stage-settings,  may,  if  he 
chooses,  make  use  of  the  following  abbrevia- 
tions in  the  stage  directions  :  — 

D.  F.,  door  in  flat  running  back  of  stage. 

C.  D.  P.,  centre  door  in  the  flat. 

R.  D.  P.,  right  door  in  the  flat. 

L.  D.  P.,  left  door  in  the  flat. 

R.  D.,  right  door. 

L.  D.,  left  door. 

1,  2,  3,  4,  5,  G.,  1st,  2d,  3d,  4th,  5th  groove. 

4.  Material  for  Scene -Plots  for  the 
above  Interiors  and  Exteriors.  —  Let  the 
student  refer  back  to  plan  No.  1  (interior),  and 


80  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

locate  in  tlie  stage-setting  the  different  pieces 
of  furniture  mentioned  below :  — 

For  Interior  Plan  No.  1. 

(1.)  C,  large  table. 
(2.)  E.  of  table,  arm-chair. 
(3.)  L.  of  table,  two  chairs, 
(4.)  In  flats  between  R.  C.  and  C,  and  C. 
and  L.  C,  small  stands. 

(5.)  In  flat  L.  2  E.,  fireplace. 

(6.)  In  flat  R.  2  E.,  sofa. 

(7.)  L.  C.  towards  front,  settee. 

(8.)  R.  C.  towards  rear,  screen. 

(9.)  L.  C.  rear  corner,  easel  with  picture. 

(10.)  R.  C.  front,  near  C,  piano. 

For  Interior  Plan  No.  2. 

(1.)  In  flat,  at  back,  from  C.  to  L.  (in  the 
centre),  grate,  with  ornamental  mantelpiece. 

(2.)  At  both  ends  of  said  flat,  large  arm- 
chairs. 

(3.)  In  run,  between  R.  2  E.  and  flat  stand- 
ing out  from  R.  C.  back,  shrubs,  flowers,  etc. 

(4.)  In  flat  L.  2  E.,  piano  with  stool  in 
front  of  it. 

(5.)  R.  C.  front,  small  table. 

(6.)  R.  of  table,  chair. 

(7.)  R.  3  E.,  screen  seen  among  the  flowers. 

(8.)  On  the  run  R.  3  E.,  statues  seen  amid 
the  shrubs. 

(9.)  C.  towards  left,  sofa. 

(10.)  Chairs  near  R.  1  E.  and  L.  1  E. 


STAGE  PLANS.  31 

For  Exterior  Plaist  No.  1. 

(1.)  From  R.  U.  E.  to  L.  U.  E.  at  back,  a 
low  stone  wall,  with  gate  in  centre. 

(2.)  In  front  of  set  house  L.  2  E.,  mat  and 
carpet  going  up  the  steps. 

(3.)  Near  E.  2  E.,  garden  bench. 

(4.)  At  R.  of  bench,  garden  chair. 

(5.)  E..  C.  near  back,  large  set  tree. 

(6.)  Set  trees,  or  shrubs,  L.  C.  near  L.  3  E. 

For  Exterior  Plan  No.  2. 

(1.)  Small  fountain  near  R.  2  E. 

(2.)  Vender's  stall  near  L.  3  E. 

(3.)  C,  large  lamp-post. 

(4.)  Signs,  hanging  from  houses,  L.  and  R. 

(5.)  Set  trees  before  houses,  in  flats  R.  1 
E.  and  R.  U.  E. 

5.  Property  Plots.  —  Let  the  student  read 
one  act  of  any  play  and  make  out  a  property 
plot  of  the  act,  by  enumerating  every  object 
mentioned  as  present  during  the  entire  act. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

DIFFERENT    KINDS    OF    PLAYS. 

Tragedy. 

1.  No  Systematic  Classification.  No  sat. 
isfactory  method  of  classifying  the  drama  is 
in  existence  among  English-speaking  peoples. 
For  the  working  playwright  this  is  perhaps 
of  no  very  serious  consequence.  If  his  play 
is  a  success,  it  matters  little  to  him  what 
name  is  applied  to  it.  Nevertheless,  occasions 
arise  when  even  the  playwright  would  find  it 
convenient  to  indicate  the  character  of  his  pro- 
duction by  a  single  word  instead  of  by  a  long 
circumlocution ;  while  for  critic  and  manager 
the  defect  is  a  matter  of  never-ceasing  embar- 
rassment and  perplexity. 

2.  Two  Principal  Classes.  —  The  growth 
of  the  drama  in  all  civilized  countries  has  re- 
sulted in  the  development  of  two  classes  of 
plays,  distinguished  by  certain  general  marks 
of  divergence.  One  class  deals  with  the  seri- 
ous aspects  of  life,  and  is  called  tragedy  ;  the 
other  with  the  laughable  aspects,  and  is  called 
comedy. 

In  the  early  history  of  the  stage,  while  the 
dramatic  forms  were  simple  and  criticism  as 


DIFFERENT  KINDS   OF  PLAYS.  33 

yet  undeveloped,  the  terms  above  given  could 
be  used  with  accuracy  and  significance  ;  but 
as  the  development  of  the  drama  continued, 
the  two  classes  showed  a  tendency,  in  some 
cases,  to  merge  one  into  the  other,  until  the 
distinction  lost  much  of  its  earlier  impor- 
tance, while  the  rise  of  formal  criticism  cre- 
ated arbitrary  standards  where  no  essential 
distinction  existed.  To  illustrate  :  the  trage- 
dies of  ^schylus  deal  solely  with  the  serious 
side  of  life,  the  comedies  of  Aristophanes, 
solely  with  its  follies.  In  the  tragedies  of 
Shakespeare  we  find  abundance  of  comedy, 
and  in  his  comedies,  especially  in  the  Merchant 
of  Venice,  AlVs  Well  that  Ends  Well,  and 
As  You  Like  It,  scenes  that  might  well  form 
part  of  tragedy.  For  examples  of  the  influ- 
ence of  criticism  in  giving  arbitrary  names, 
mention  may  be  made  of  Dante's  Divina  Com- 
media  and  Corneille's  Le  Cid. 

3.  The  Distinction  Valuable.  —  Notwith- 
standing the  truth  of  the  facts  just  stated, 
the  traditional  distinction  between  tragedy 
and  comedy  must  always  be  a  valuable  one 
for  the  critic.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  a  nat- 
ural distinction,  a  direct  result  of  the  two- 
fold character  of  life  itself ;  and  in  the  second 
place,  it  is  already  thoroughly  impressed  upon 
the  popular  consciousness.  Whatever  classi- 
fications are  made,  therefore,  it  will  be  advisa- 
ble to  use  the  common  division  into  comedy 
and  tragedy  as  a  convenient  starting-point  for 
the  discussion. 


S4  THE  ART  OF  PLAY  WRITING. 

4.  Different  Classes  of  Plays.  —  The  dif« 
ferent  kinds  of  plays  which  will  be  treated 
in  this  chapter  are  the  following  :  ^  — 

(1.)  Tragedy. 

(2.)  Comedy. 

(3.)  The  drame,  or  Schauspiel. 

(4.)  The  piece.  \  The    society 

(5.)  The  emotional  drama,  j         play. 

(6.)  The  melodrama. 

(7.)  The  spectacular  drama. 

(8.)  The  comedy  drama. 

(9.)  The  musical  drama. 
(10.)  The  farce  comedy,  or  farcical  comedy. 
(11.)  The  farce. 
(12.)  The  burlesque. 
(13.)  The  burletta. 
(14.)  The  comedietta. 

5.  Tragedy.  —  The  general  character  of 
tragedy,  as  that  species  of  drama  which  pre- 
sents the  serious  aspect  of  life,  has  already 
been  suggested.  As  it  is  the  business  of  the 
drama  in  general  to  portray  the  clash  of  in- 
dividual interests,''^  it  is  the  peculiar  function 

^  No  mention  is  made  of  the  old  English  miracle  and 
mystery  plays,  as  they  are  no  longer  seen  upon  the  stage 
either  in  the  original  form  or  in  imitations.  (For  full 
particulars  regarding  them,  see  Ward's  or  Collier's  His- 
tory of  the  Drama).  The  same  remark  will  not  apply  to 
the  Spanish  Comedias  de  capa  y  de  espada,  the  Italian 
Commedie  delV  arte,  and  many  other  examples  from  the 
European  stage,  but  their  connection  with  the  English 
drama  of  to-day  is  too  remote  to  entitle  them  to  consid* 
eration  here. 

*  See  Chapter  xv.  1. 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PLATS.  35 

of  tragedy  to  represent  this  conflict  as  termi- 
nating fatally,  that  is,  as  resulting  generally 
in  the  death  of  one  or  more  of  the  contending 
characters ;  or  at  any  rate,  as  involving  a 
struggle  of  a  stern  and  momentous  character, 
from  which  escape  is  possible  only  through 
the  intervention  of  extraordinary  agencies. 
Hence  tragedy  calls  for  characters  of  un- 
wonted strength  of  will  and  depth  of  serious- 
ness, events  of  great  significance,  and  an  ele- 
vated style  of  diction,  generally  verse. 

6.  Comedy.  —  Comedy  is  the  converse  oi 
tragedy.  In  it  the  conflict  is  always  recon- 
ciled at  the  end  and  all  disasters  averted. 
The  conflict  itself,  however  serious  it  may 
seem  during  the  progress  of  the  play,  turns 
out  at  the  end  to  have  been  a  case  of  much 
ado  about  nothing.  The  characters  are  either 
not  serious  in  their  aims,  or  if  they  are,  the 
objects  for  which  they  are  striving  are  shown 
to  be  worthless.  In  comedy  some  one  is  al- 
ways represented  as  pursuing  a  bubble.  At 
the  close,  the  bubble  bursts,  and  with  good- 
natured  submission  the  deluded  pursuer  ac- 
knowledges his  folly.  It  follows  that  while 
in  tragedy  the  characters  are  mostly  taken 
from  the  higher  walks  of  life,  in  comedy  the 
average  man  is  the  central  figure.  The  style 
is  familiar  and  colloquial,  and  generally  ])rose. 

7.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style.  — 
From  the  preceding  paragraphs  it  appears 
that  the  principal  lines  of  distinction  between 


86  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

tragedy  and  comedy  are  to  be  sought  for  in 
the  theme,  the  characters,  the  plot,  and  the 
style. 

8.  The  Theme.  —  By  the  theme  of  a  play 
is  meant  the  problem,  social,  moral,  political, 
religious,  psychological,  or  whatever  it  may 
be,  which  the  play  presents  for  the  consider- 
ation of  the  spectator.  It  is  generally  agreed 
that  the  drama  should  not  be  didactic,  that 
is,  should  not  directly  teach  anything,  but 
this  by  no  means  enjoins  the  dramatist  from 
bringing  before  us  questions  of  momentous 
human  interest  and  so  treating  them  that  the 
rightful  solution  is  suggested  if  not  demon- 
strated. 

It  should  not  be  inferred  from  what  has 
been  said  that  the  playwright  must  select  a 
theme  at  the  outset,  and  deliberately  build 
his  play  upon  it.  He  may  be  conscious  of  his 
theme,  or  he  may  work  unconsciously  and  find 
with  astonishment,  when  his  work  is  over, 
that  a  theme  has  grown  up  under  his  hand 
unbidden.  A  thoughtful  man,  with  well-de- 
fined views  of  the  problems  of  human  exist- 
ence, can  hardly  present  any  picture  of  life  or 
society  without  giving  it  somewhere  the  im- 
press of  his  own  thought,  and  making  it  some- 
how the  vehicle  of  his  own  ideals.-' 

^  This  line  of  thought  cannot  be  pursued  further  here. 
It  is  perhaps  needless  to  say  that  it  involves  some  of 
the  most  hotly  contested  questions  in  dramatic  criticism, 
more  particularly  the  morality  of   the  drama,  and  tho 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PLATS.  37 

The  theme  in  comedy  is  naturally  of  less 
importance  than  in  tragedy,  and  in  the  lighter 
forms  may  not  appear  at  all.  Still  even  here 
a  master-hand  will  manage  to  suggest  in  a 
striking  manner  current  social  or  political 
problems. 

On  the  characters  in  general,  and  on  the 
plot,  see  §§4,  5,  6.  The  style  is  properly 
a  matter  of  rhetoric,  and  is  brought  in  here 
only  as  a  convenient  element  for  purposes  of 
classification. 

9.  Kinds  of  Tragedy.  —  The  principal 
varieties  of  tragedy  are  :  — 

(1.)  The  ancient  classic  tragedy. 
(2.)  The  modern  classic  tragedy. 
(3.)  The  romantic  tragedy. 
(4.)  The  mediated  tragedy. 

10.  Meaning  of  the  Word  ''  Classic."  — 
The  word  classic,  as  applied  to  the  drama,  is 
used  in  several  different  senses,  which  it  will 
be  well  to  distinguish  at  the  outset.  It 
means :  — 

(1.)  Belonging  to  the  Greek  or  Latin  liter- 
atures at  the  time  of  their  ascendancy. 

(2.)  Written  under  the  influence  of  formal 
rules  of  criticism.  In  this  sense  the  word  is 
almost  wholly  confined  to  the  French  drama 
produced  while  the  laws  of  the  three  unities  ^ 

objectivity  of  the  dramatist.  Upon  the  latter  point  an 
interesting  essay  may  be  found  (presenting  the  obverse 
of  the  argument)  iu  the  introduction  to  Alfred  Austin's 
Prince  Lucifer. 

*  See  Chapter  xv.  11. 


&8  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

were  considered  of  force,  but  it  has  been  ap 
plied  to  the  period  of  French  influence  in 
Germany,  England,  and  Italy.  The  classic 
drama  par  excellence  belongs  to  the  seven- 
teenth century.  Its  influence  lingered  until 
the  opening  of  this  century,  when  the  Roman- 
ticists, chiefly  with  the  aid  of  Victor  Hugo 
and  Dumas  jjere,  broke  over  the  classic  rules 
and  ushered  in  a  new  order  of  drama. 

(3.)  The  middle  (or  Greek)  stage  in  the  de- 
velopment of  art  according  to  Hegel.  The 
whole  series  is  symbolic  —  classic  —  romantic. 
This  is  a  highly  technical  use  of  the  term,  and 
plays  no  part  in  the  present  discussion.  It  is 
mentioned  here  simply  because  it  is  sometimes 
confused  with  the  foregoing. 

(4.)  The  best  of  its  kind  in  any  literature. 
Thus  we  say  of  any  fine  piece  of  literature 
which  is  certain  to  live,  that  it  "  has  become 
one  of  the  classics  of  the  language." 

11.  Meaning  of  the  Word  "  Romantic." 
The  following  meanings  are  in  use  for  the 
word  romantic :  — 

(1.)  Belonging  to  the  literary  movement 
directed  against  the  French  rules  of  criticism. 

(2.)  The  third  (or  Christian)  stage  in  the 
Hegelian  system,  as  explained  above. 

(3.)  Characterized  by  great  freedom  of  im- 
agination and  treatment,  as,  e.  g.,  the  Shake- 
spearean drama. 

12.  Ancient  Classic  Tragedy. — This  re- 
fers  almost  exclusively  to  the  Greek  tragedy, 


DIFFERENT  KINDS   OF  PLAYS.  89 

and  need  not  be  dwelt  upon.  The  Greek 
tragedy  was  imitated  by  the  Romans  and  the 
Italians,  and  finds  occasional  imitators  at  the 
present  day.  The  most  notable  instance  of 
the  latter  is  perhaps  Swinburne,  in  his  Ata^ 
lanta  in  Calydon. 

13.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style. 
(1.)   Theme.      The   common   theme    of  all 

Greek  tragedies  is  the  supremacy  of  fate  over 
all  things,  both  human  and  divine. 

(2.)  Characters.  The  principal  characters 
are  heroes,  royal  personages,  and  gods. 

(3.)  Plot.  The  story  was  uniformly  taken 
from  legend  or  mythology.^  The  close  was 
generally  a  death  (which  never  took  place  on 
the  stage),  but  this  catastrophe  was  sometimes 
averted,  and  the  ending  made  a  happy  one. 
The  unities,  as  they  were  afterwards  called, 
were  unknown  to  the  Greek  dramatists  as 
rules  of  criticism,  and  were  observed,  when 
observed  at  all,  purely  by  accident. 

(4.)   Style.     Verse. 

14.  Modern  Classic  Tragedy.  —  This  has 
been  already  sufficiently  explained  in  §  10  (2), 
above.  Unless  otherwise  specified,  it  is  com- 
monly understood  to  refer  to  the  tragedies  of 
Corneille  and  Racine. 

15.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style. 

^  A  single  instance  of  a  tragedy  in  which  original  plot, 
and  characters  were  introduced,  namely,  Agathon's 
Flower,  is  mentioned  by  Aristotle.  Unfortunately  this 
play  has  not  come  down  to  us. 


40  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

(1.)  Theme.     The  chief  defect  of  the  cla». 

sic  tragedy  is  that  (being  an  imitation  of  the 
Greek)  it  has  no  living  theme  of  its  own. 

(2.)  Characters.  Same  as  above.  The 
characters  are  mostly  conventional  types. 

(3.)  Plot.  The  stories  are  mostly  taken 
from  Greek  and  Latin  literature.  The  uni- 
ties are  scrupulously  observed,  and  the  close 
must  be  a  death.  No  comedy  element  is 
admitted. 

(4.)  Style.  Heroic  verse.  Diction  more  or 
less  declamatory  and  artificial. 

Classic  tragedy  has  never  thrived  on  the 
English  stage.  Among  the  few  examples 
worth  mentioning  are  Addison's  Cato,  John- 
son's Irene,  and  Byron's  Sardanapalus. 

16.  Romantic  Tragedy.  —  The  term  ro- 
mantic is  applied  in  a  general  way  to  any 
modern  drama  written  without  regard  to  the 
French  rules  of  criticism,  and  characterized 
by  the  free  play  of  passion  and  imagination. 

17.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style. 
(1.)   Theme.     Almost   any  human   passion 

may  be  used  as  a  theme  in  romantic  tragedy. 
Love  always  plays  a  prominent  and  generally 
a  leading  part  in  the  tragic  conflict. 

(2.)  Characters.  The  characters  may  be 
taken  from  any  rank  or  station.  Great  stress 
is  laid  upon  character-drawing. 

(3.)  Plot.  Incidents  are  selected  which 
will  best  bring  out  peculiarities  of  character. 
The  conclusion  is  uniformly  a  death.     Comic 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PLAYS.  41 

incidents  are  freely  interspersed.  The  unities 
are  disregarded  at  will. 

(4.)  Style.  Verse  in  the  serious  parts ; 
verse  or  prose  in  the  comedy  passages.  Great 
use  is  made  of  humor  and  pathos,  by  the  com- 
bination of  which  subtle  effects  are  attained 
unknown  to  the  classic  tragedy. 

From  the  English  point  of  view,  such 
plays  as  Frou-Frou  and  Camille  are  roman- 
tic tragedies.  As  will  appear  later  on,  how- 
ever, the  French  have  other  terms  by  which 
to  designate  plays  of  this  class. 

18.  Mediated.  Tragedy.  —  There  is  a  com- 
mon type  of  drama  which  seems  not  to  belong 
to  either  tragedy  or  comedy,  or  rather  to  be- 
long to  both  at  once.  The  play  as  a  whole  is 
of  a  serious  character,  and  seems  tending  to 
a  tragic  catastrophe,  but  at  the  conclusion  the 
disaster  is  averted  and  all  ends  happily.  This 
class  of  plays  is  known  in  Germany  as  Versijh- 
nungsdrama  (reconciliation-drama).  IS"©  cor- 
responding term  exists  in  English.  Perhaps 
none  that  might  be  suggested  would  be  likely 
to  meet  with  universal  acceptance,  but  the 
expression  mediated  tragedy  seems  as  little 
objectionable  as  any,  and  will  be  used  in  this 
book  wherever  this  class  of  plays  is  referred 
to  as  a  class. 

This  is  a  convenient  classificntion  from  a 
theoretical  standpoint,  because  the  nature  of 
the  conclusion  has  an  intimate  connection 
with  the  rest  of  the  drama ;  but  as  a  practical 


42  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

designation  to  indicate  the  style  of  play  in- 
tended, it  is  of  no  great  importance.  Speci- 
mens of  mediated  tragedy  may  be  found  in 
both  the  ancient  classic  and  the  modern  ro- 
mantic drama;  consequently  no  generally 
applicable  remarks  can  be  made  regarding 
themes,  etc.  As  the  mediated  tragedy  is  the 
connecting  link  between  tragedy  and  comedy, 
its  subdivisions  may  properly  form  the  sub- 
ject-matter of  a  separate  chapter. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

DIFFEBENT    KINDS    OF    PLATS  (continued). 

Mediated    Tragedy. 

1.  Subdivisions.  —  The  general  character 
of  mediated  tragedy  was  pointed  out  in  the 
preceding  chapter.  The  most  important 
are :  — 

(1.)  The  drame,  or  Schauspiel. 
(2.)  The  piece. 
(3.)  The  emotional  drama. 
(4.)  The  melodrama. 

Of  these  the  second  and  third  are  properly 
divisions  of  the  first. 

2.  The  Drame.  —  No  English  equivalent 
for  this  term  is  in  use.  The  German  Schau- 
spiel, mostly  used  in  a  loose  way  to  mean  any 
sort  of  drama  whatever,  is  often  restricted  to 
this  particular  species. 

The  general  characteristic  of  the  drame  is 
the  predominance  of  the  emotional  element. 
The  following  varieties  may  be  distinguished : 

(1.)  The  romantic  drame. 

(2.)  The  social  drame. 

3.  The  Romantio  Drame.  —  The  best  ex- 
amples of  the  romantic  drame  to  be  found  on 
the  American  stage  are  what  are  commonly 


44  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

known  as  "frontier  dramas."  Familiar  in- 
stances are  Davy  Crockett,  Ranch  10,  and  The 
Danites.  It  is  distinguished  by  prominent 
emotional  elements  and  a  tendency  to  senti- 
mentality, combined  with  rapid  movement  of 
incident. 

4.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style. 

(1.)  Theme.  Generally  of  little  importance. 
The  value  of  personal  strength,  courage,  and 
manliness  is  most  frequently  touched  upon. 

(2.)  Characters.  The  characters  are  of  a 
bold,  free,  and  dashing  type,  and  are  taken, 
if  from  the  past,  from  an  age  of  personal 
bravery  and  gallantry,  or,  if  from  the  present, 
either  from  some  nationality  in  which  such 
qualities  prevail,  or  from  a  stage  of  society 
where  the  presence  of  law  and  order  has  not 
yet  been  recognized. 

(3.)  Plot.  The  romantic  drame  calls  for 
striking  incidents,  strong  situations,  ^  and 
daring  escapades.  Rapidity  of  movement 
through  a  succession  of  quickly-culminating 
climaxes  ^  is  the  most  striking  characteristic 
of  the  plot.  The  grand  climax  '  is  not  infre- 
quently made  a  spectacular  effect. 

(4.)  Style.  Almost  uniformly  prose,  of  an 
impassioned  and  sometimes  inflated  order. 
Broad  effects  are  aimed  at  in  both  humor  and 
pathos,  and  rapid  transitions  are  made  from 

^  See  Chapter  x.  7- 

2  See  Chapters  xvi.  6  and  xviii.  9. 

^  See  Chapter  xix. 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PLAYS.  45 

one  to  the  other.  "  Sentiments "  are  fre- 
quently inserted  in  the  lines. 

A  sentiment  is  a  striking  thought  intended 
to  appeal  to  the  sensibilities  of  the  audience 
(as  the  sense  of  justice,  fair  play,  honor,  pa- 
triotism, etc.),  and  carefully  worded  in  lan- 
guage more  or  less  poetical.  "  Rags  are  royal 
raiment  when  worn  for  virtue's  sake,"  is  a 
well-known  sentiment  from  Bartley  Camp- 
bell's White  Slave.  In  this  country  a  good 
sentiment  rarely  fails  to  win  a  round  of  ap- 
plause, but  in  the  French  theatres  (excepting 
those  of  a  "  popular  "  character)  such  bits  of 
declamation  frequently  call  out  hisses. 

The  sentiment  differs  from  the  "gag"  in 
that  it  is  meant  to  be  taken  seriously,  and  is 
used  but  once  in  the  play ;  whereas  the  gag 
has  a  comic  effect,  which  grows  with  each  rep- 
etition. 

5.  The  Social  Drame.  —  This  is  preemi- 
nently the  drama  of  to-day,  the  outgrowth  of 
the  nineteenth  century  civilization  of  which 
it  is  a  picture.  It  may  be  considered  under 
two  distinct  classes  :  — 

(1.)  The  piece. 

(2.)  The  emotional  drama. 

6.  The  Pi^ce.  —  There  is  unfortunately  no 
English  ierm  corresponding  to  this  French 
title,  aliihough  the  English  "  piece,"  often  ap- 
plied uO  plays  in  general,  might  well  enough 
be  appropriated  for  the  purpose.  The  piece  is 
AietjKiguished  by  the  great  prominence  of  the 


46  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

comic  (of  an  elevated  character),  -which  is 
used  to  relieve  the  intense  emotional  features 
of  the  play. 

7.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style. 
(1.)   Theme.    The  theme  of  the  piece  should 

be  some  topic  of  the  day,  social  or  political. 
It  must  be  a  topic  capable  of  being  viewed  in 
a  light  both  serious  and  humorous.  Any  so- 
cial movement  in  which  the  people  are  seri- 
ously interested,  but  which  has  developed 
abuses  that  may  be  exposed  or  laughed  at,  is 
a  good  theme  for  the  piece.  Love  is  the  stand- 
ing theme  of  all  plays  of  this  class. 

(2.)  Characters.  The  characters  are  those 
of  the  society  of  the  day. 

(3.)  Plot.  The  serious  incidents  are  of  a 
"  quiet "  order,  but  powerful.  The  comic  in- 
cidents are  numerous,  and  at  times  give  the 
play  almost  the  effect  of  the  better  class  of 
light  comedy. 

(4.)  Style.  The  style  is  as  nearly  as  possi- 
ble an  imitation  of  the  language  of  every-day 
life. 

8.  The  Emotional  Drama.  —  This  differs 
from  the  piece  chiefly  in  the  greater  promi- 
nence accorded  to  the  emotional  element.  It 
is  somewhat  further  removed  also  from  the 
interests  of  every-day  life.  It  is  less  realistic 
and  more  sentimental. 

9.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style. 
(1.)   Theme.     The  theme  may  be  the  same 

as  that  of  the  piece,  but  is  taken  more  seri- 
ously, although  less  stress  is  laid  upon  it. 


DIFFERENT  ItlNDS  OF  PLATS.  47 

(2.)  Characters.  The  characters  are  taken 
from  modern  life,  but  their  virtues  and  vices 
are  somewhat  exaggerated.  The  villain  ^  and 
the  "  heavy  "  *  characters,  in  general,  play  a 
more  prominent  part  than  in  the  piece. 

(3.)  Plot.  The  emotional  drama  calls  for 
powerful  situations  displaying  intense  passion 
and  emotion.  The  transition  from  pathos  to 
humor  is  not  so  rapid,  and  need  not  be  so  ar- 
tistically brought  about  as  in  the  piece. 

(4.)  Style.  The  style  is  less  natural  than 
that  of  the  piece,  especially  in  the  powerful 
situations,  where  the  language  is  often  highly 
poetical. 

Both  piece  and  emotional  drama  are  fre- 
quently spoken  of  as  "  society  plays." 

Although  both  these  plays  properly  belong 
to  mediated  tragedy,  the  conclusion  is  some- 
times the  death  of  the  principal  character. 
The  circumstances  of  the  death  are  so  man- 
aged, however,  that  its  effect  is  emotional  or 
pathetic  rather  than  tragic. 

10.  Melodrama.  —  The  original  form  of 
melodrama  was  that  of  a  semi-heroic  drama, 
the  scenes  of  which  were  freely  interspersed 
with  songs.  The  musical  element  has  now 
ceased  to  be  a  characteristic  feature,  and  the 
name  has  been  appropriated  for  an  exagger- 
ated style  of  emotional  drama. 

11.  Theme,  Characters,  Plot,  and  Style. 
(1.)  Theme.     The  theme  borders  nearly  on 

*  See  Chapter  xiii.  16.  '  See  Chapter  xiii.  9. 


48  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITING. 

that  of  the  romantic  drame,  but  it  is  treated 
in  a  strained  and  unbalanced  fashion  that  robs 
it  of  its  proper  impressiveness  for  those  who 
are  not  carried  away  by  their  emotions. 

(2.)  Characters.  The  characters  are  taken 
from  all  ranks  of  life.  The  villain  is  here  in- 
dispensable, and  generally  takes  the  form  of 
a  group  of  thoroughly  vicious  characters,  who, 
after  working  great  mischief,  end  by  circum- 
venting and  destroying  one  another. 

(3.)  Plot.  The  plots  of  melodrama  are 
usually  of  a  dark  and  gloomy  character,  full 
of  startling  incidents,  bordering  closely  on  the 
improbable.  Intrigue  and  crime  furnish  the 
necessary  complications. 

(4.)  Style.  By  a  sort  of  dramatic  license, 
the  writer  of  melodrama  is  allowed  to  indulge 
in  "  gush  "  and  "  rant "  to  an  almost  unlimited 
extent.  Indeed,  in  most  cases,  this  is  the 
only  kind  of  language  which  harmonizes  with 
the  extravagant  characters  and  situations. 
In  some  of  the  older  melodramas  the  style  is 
bombastic  and  unnatural  to  such  a  degree 
that  to  the  reader  of  the  present  day  it  sounds 
like  burlesque.  Many  of  the  more  recent 
melodramas,  on  the  other  hand,  show  an  en- 
couraging moderation  both  in  plot  and  dic- 
tion. 

12.  Spectacular  Drama.  —  This  is  the 
title  given  to  almost  any  kind  of  dramatic 
performance  which  relies  for  its  effects  largely 
upon  gorgeous  scenery,  furnishings,  parades, 


DIFFERENT  KINDS   OF  PLAYS.  49 

transformation  scenes,  etc.  Melodramas  are 
often  selected  for  this  purpose,  but  even  com- 
edies of  a  burlesque  character  are  susceptible 
of  such  treatment.  The  French  "  feries " 
and  the  English  "  Christmas  pantomimes " 
are  species  of  spectacular  dramas ;  in  fact,  all 
performances  not  operas,  requiring  an  exten- 
sive corjis  de  ballet  and  gorgeous  and  fantastic 
costumes,  properly  fall  under  the  head  of 
spectacular. 

12.  The  Musical  Drama.  —  The  libretto  of 
the  opera  is  a  peculiar  kind  of  drama  entirely 
in  verse  and  set  to  music,  or  partly  in  verse 
set  to  music  and  partly  in  prose  to  be  spoken. 
Barring  the  verse,  it  does  not  differ  much 
from  any  other  drama,  save  that  the  plot  is 
sometimes  simpler  and  the  action  slower  than 
would  in  other  cases  be  allowable.  The  basis 
for  grand  opera  is  usually  the  romantic 
drame ;  for  comic  operas  light  comedy  or  bur- 
lesque. 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

DIFFERENT    KINDS    OF    PLAYS  (cOHttflUed), 

Comedy. 

1.  Elinds  of  Comedy.  —  The  general  char- 
acter of  comedy  has  been  indicated  in  a  fore- 
going chapter.^  Its  kinds  are  by  no  means 
so  numerous  as  those  of  tragedy,  nor  is  it 
so  difficult  to  distinguish  between  them. 
What  has  been  said  regarding  classical  and 
romantic  tragedy  will  apply  to  classical  and 
romantic  comedy,  —  keeping  in  mind  of 
course  the  fundamental  difference  bet\7een 
comedy  and  tragedy.  It  will  not  be  neces' 
sary,  therefore,  to  go  into  so  full  details  «s  ir 
the  preceding  chapters.  The  following  are 
the  principal  types  of  comedy  :  — 

(1.)  Ancient  classic  comedy. 

(2.)  Modern  classic  comedy. 

(3.)  Romantic  comedy. 

(4.)  The  comedy  of  manners. 

(5.)  The  comedy  drama. 

(6.)  The  farce  comedy  or  farcical  comedy. 

(7.)  The  farce. 

(8.)  The  burlesque. 

(9.)  Theburletta. 

(10.)  The  comedietta. 

^  See  Chapter  vii.  6. 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PLAYS.  51 

2.  Ancient  Classic  Comedy.  —  In  ancient 
Greek  comedy  it  is  customary  to  distinguish 
three  different  classes  or  stages  : 

(1.)  The  old  comedy,  characterized  by  bit- 
ter personal  and  political  satire.  Aristoph- 
anes is  the  principal  representative. 

(2.)  The  middle  comedy,  dealing  with  so- 
ciety rather  than  politics,  and  critical  rather 
than  satirical.  Represented  by  fragments  of 
the  plays  of  Philippus,  Araros,  Antiphanes, 
and  Alexis. 

(3.)  The  new  comedy,  of  a  thoroughly  so- 
cial character,  full  of  conventional  episodes 
and  stock  characters.  The  great  representa- 
tive of  this  class  is  Menander.  The  new 
comedy  furnished  models  for  the  Latin  plays 
of  Plautus  and  Terence,  which  last  were  in 
turn  models  for  early  English  playwrights. 
Shakespeare's  Comedy  of  Errors,  for  example, 
is  a  direct  imitation  of  the  Mencechmi  of 
Plautus. 

3.  Modern  Classic  and  Romantic  Comi- 
edy.  —  The  observance  or  non-observance  of 
the  three  unities  is  the  only  ground  for  this 
division.  When  the  romantic  movement  swept 
away  the  ancient  critical  barriers,  comedy 
naturally  shared  in  the  liberties  accorded  to 
tragedy. 

4.  Comedy  of  Manners.  —  In  the  comedy 
of  manners  especial  attention  is  paid  to  char- 
acter-drawing, and  each  character  is  made  the 
representative  of  a  certain  trait  or  passion. 


52  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

In  this  way  conventional  or  stock  characters 
are  developed,  such  as  the  dissipated  son,  the 
rich  and  miserly  uncle,  the  cruel  father,  the 
intriguing  servant,  and  so  on,  which  are  used 
over  and  over  again.  Comedies  of  manners 
are  of  a  quiet  and  domestic  character  and 
deal  with  the  follies  of  society.  The  term 
has  about  gone  out  of  use,  except  when  refer- 
ring to  the  comedy  of  the  last  century. 

5.  The  Comedy  Drama.  —  The  most  dig- 
nified form  of  comedy  is  the  comedy  drama 
or  comic  drama.  It  may,  in  fact,  so  nearly 
approach  the  piece  as  hardly  to  be  distin- 
guished from  it.  It  does  not  admit,  however 
(as  the^iece  does)  incidents  of  a  really  tragic 
character.  Whatever  in  the  comedy  drama 
seems  to  be  serious  must  in  the  end  turn  out 
to  have  been  a  mistake.  There  can  be  no 
death,  no  misfortune  which  cannot  be  made 
right  at  the  conclusion.  The  humor  must  be 
of  a  refined  order,  and  arise  from  manifesta- 
tion of  character  rather  than  from  arrange- 
ment of  situation  and  incident.^ 

6.  The  Farce  Comedy.  —  The  farce  com- 
edy is  a  transition  stage  from  the  comedy 
drama  to  the  farce.  Considerable  attention 
is  still  paid  to  the  characterization,  but  the 

^  For  perfect  models  of  refined  comedy  drama,  the 
student  cannot  do  better  than  turn  to  the  plays  of  Emile 
Augier.  Anything  more  perfect  in  construction  and  in 
delineation  of  character,  or  more  delicate  in  humor,  can- 
not be  found  in  any  language. 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PLATS.  53 

incidents  and  the  lines  furnish  most  of  the 
entertainment. 

7.  The  Farce.  —  In  the  farce  almost  the 
sole  reliance  is  placed  in  the  plot  and  the 
lines.  Laughable  incidents  tread  upon  one 
another's  heels,  and  the  lines  are  filled  with 
witticisms  which  have  little  fitness  to  the 
characters  uttering  them.  The  characters 
are  arbitrarily  exaggerated  and  overdrawn 
for  the  sake  of  comic  effect.  A  farce  which 
aims  solely  at  exciting  boisterous  laughter 
from  beginning  to  end  is  called  a  screaming 
farce.     The  farce  is  generally  short. 

8.  The  Burlesque.  —  The  burlesque  is  a 
kind  of  dramatic  parody.  It  may  parody 
either  some  well-known  play  (or  type  of 
plays),  or  some  familiar  institution  of  soci- 
ety. Of  the  latter  class  two  kinds  are  com- 
monly distinguished :  — 

(1.)  That  in  which  personages  of  high  rank 
or  culture  are  represented  as  acting  in  a  triv- 
ial way. 

(2.)  That  in  which  insignificant  characters 
are  represented  as  performing  acts  pertaining 
to  heroic  personages. 

9.  The  Burletta.  —  This  term,  which  prop- 
erly means  a  small  joke,  is  sometimes  applied 
to  short  farces  built  on  very  slight  plots. 

10.  The  Comedietta.  —  Any  very  short 
comedy  may  be  termed  a  comedietta,  but  the 
term  generally  implies  a  more  quiet  move- 
ment and  more   care   in   character-sketching 


54  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

than  the  farce.     In  this  sense,  a  comedietta 
is  a  miniature  comedy  drama. 

11.  Recapitulation  and  Illustrations.  — 
The  following  table  brings  together  the  con- 
tents of  the  foregoing  chapters  in  their 
proper  relations,  with  illustrations  of  the  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  plays  mentioned. 

I.    TRAGEDY. 

(1.)  a.  Ancient  classic  (with  catastrophe). 
Electra  of  Sophocles. 

h.  Ancient  classic  (mediated).  Suppliants 
of  ^schylus. 

(2.)  Modern  classic.  Corneille's  Cinna; 
Addison's  Cato. 

(3.)  Romantic.  Shakespeare's  Macbeth; 
Schiller's  Maria  Stuart ;  Calderon's  M  Ma^ 
gico  prodigioso ;  Manzoni's  II  Conte  Carma- 
gnola ;  Victor  Hugo's  Hemani ;  Sardou's 
Theodora. 

IT.    MEDIATED  TRAGEDY. 

(1.)  a.  The  romantic  drame.  Miller's  The 
Da7iites  ;  Bulwer's  Richelieu  ;  Schiller's  WiU 
helm  Tell. 

h.  The  social  drame ;  including  (2)  and  (3) 
below. 

(2.)  The  piece.  Bronson  Howard's  The 
Henrietta;  Dumas'  Denise;  Feuillet's  Pari- 
sian Romance. 

(3.)  The  emotional  drama.  Sardou's  Fe- 
dora ;   Feuillet's  Roman  dhin  jeune   homme 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PLATS.  55 

pauvre  ;  Bronson  Howard's  Banker's  Daugh' 
ter ;  Gillette's  Held  by  the  Enemy. 

(4.)  The  melodrama.  Wills's  The  Silver 
King ;  Dennery's  Two  Orphans ;  Bartley 
Campbell's  My  Partner. 

(5.)  Spectacular  drama.  Bartley  Camp- 
bell's White  Slave  ;  Bronson  Howard's  Shen- 
andoah (of  a  higher  order) ;  Around  the  World 
in  Eighty  Days  ;  Clio  ;  Adonis. 

(6.)  Musical  drama. 

The  libretto  of  musical  drama  can  cover 
all  forms  of  tragedy  and  comedy,  conse- 
quently it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  give  illus- 
trations. 

III.    COMEDY. 

(1.)  Ancient  classic. 

a.  Greek,  Old  comedy.  The  Birds  of  Aris- 
tophanes. 

b.  Greek,  Middle  comedy.  Philippus,  Ara- 
ros,  Antiphanes,  and  Alexis  (Fragments). 

c.  Greek,  New  comedy.  Menander,  Diphi- 
lus,  Philemon  (Fragments). 

d.  Latin.  Budens  of  Plautus,  Phormio  of 
Terence. 

(2.)  Modem  classic.  Moliere's  Tartuffe ; 
Racine's  Les  Plaideurs. 

(3.)  Comedy  of  manners.  Sheridan's  &7iooJ 
for  Scandal ;  Goldoni's  Le  Donne  C ariose. 

(4.)  Bomantic  comedy. 

a.  Comedy  drama.  Bronson  Howard's 
Young    Mrs.    Winthrop ;    Mackaye's    Hazel 


56  THE  ART  OF   PLAY  WRITING. 

Kirke ;  Burnett  and  Gillette's  Esmeralda ; 
De  Mille  and  Belasco's  The  Wife. 

b.  Farce  comedy.  Bronson  Howard's  Sara- 
toga ;  Gilbert's  Engaged ;  Daly's  A  Night 
Off;  Gillette's  The  Professor. 

c.  Farce.^  Tom  Taylor's  A  Blighted  Being  ; 
Hennequin's  Pink  Dominos ;  Gilbert's  Tom 
Cobb ;  Morton's  Box  and  Cox ;  Hawtrey's 
T?i,e  Private  Secretary. 

d.  Burlesque.  Durivage's  Lady  of  the  Li- 
ons. 

6.  Burletta.     Boucicault's  Lover  by  Proxy. 

f.  Comedietta.  Augier's  Post  Script itm ; 
Bronson  Howard's  Old  Love  Letters;  How- 
ells's  Elevator. 

^  Artistically-constructed  farces  are  not  common  in 
this  country.  The  name  is  often  incorrectly  applied  to 
Buch  unclassifiable  jumbles  of  song  and  dance,  horse-play 
and  low  comedy  as  The  Rag  BUby,  Tin  Soldier,  Skipped 
by  the  Light  of  the  Moon,  Photos,  We.  Us,  and  Co,  etc. 


II 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    PARTS    OF    A    PLAY. 

1.  Acts.  —  Most  plays  are  divided  into  from 
two  to  five  main  divisions,  called  acts. 

2.  Divisions  of  the  Acts.  —  The  acts  are 
further  divided  into  :  — 

(1.)  Scenes. 
(2.)  Tableaux. 
(3.)  Situations. 

3.  Definition  of  an  Act.  —  An  act  is  a 
division  of  a  play  marked  at  its  close  by  the 
falling  of  the  curtain  and  the  suspension  of 
the  action. 

4.  Entr'acte.  —  The  interval  between  the 
acts  is  termed  entr^acte.  No  English  equiva- 
lent for  the  word  is  in  good  usage. 

5.  Scene. — The  shifting  of  scenery  dur- 
ing the  progress  of  an  act  brings  about  a 
change  of  scene,  using  the  word  in  the  Eng- 
lish sense.^ 

6.  Tableau.  —  A  tableau  is  a  division  of 
an  act  marked  by  a  momentary  descent  of 
the  curtain.  It  frequently  implies  some  spec- 
tacular effect. 

1  On  the  French  stage,  a  new  scene  is  introduced  by 
ftvery  important  enter. 


58  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITING. 

The  word  tableau  is  also  used  with  refer- 
ence to  a  atage  picture  or  grouping  of  charac- 
ters at  the  close  of  an  act. 

7.  Situation.  —  This  term  has  various 
meanings :  — 

(1.)  It  is  sometimes  used  with  reference  to 
any  striking  incident  in  the  play. 

(2.)  It  is  sometimes  used  as  an  equivalent 
for  climax} 

(3.)  It  frequently  corresponds  to  the  French 
word  scene} 

ThQ  terms  scene  and  situation  are  some- 
times used  as  synonyms.  Thus  we  may  speak 
either  of  a  "  strong  scene  "  or  a  "  strong  situ- 
ation." The  word  situation,  however,  refers 
properly  to  the  moment  of  greatest  suspense ; 
scene,  to  the  whole  progress  of  the  incident. 

8.  Number  of  Acts.  —  No  fixed  rule 
can  be  given  for  the  number  of  acts  into 
which  a  play  should  be  divided.  The  old  di- 
vision into  five  acts,  a  tradition  handed  down 
from  the  Eoman  stage,  is  no  longer  observed 
with  any  uniformity.  The  following  table 
shows  the  prevailing  tendency  at  the  present 
time:  — 

(1.)  Tragedies,  five  acts. 

(2.)  Eomantic  drames  and  melodramas,  five 
acts. 

(3.)  Emotional  dramas,  pieces,  and  society 
dramas,  four  or  five  acts. 

(4.)  Comedy  dramas,  four  acts. 

^  See  Chapter  xvi.  6. 

'  See  footnote,  in  tliis  chapter,  under  5. 


THE  PARTS  OF  A  PLAY.  59 

(5.)  Comedies  of  manners,  five  acts. 

(6.)  Comedies  of  incidents,  three  or  four 
acts. 

(7.)  Farce  comedies,  three  acts. 

(8.)  Farces,  one,  two,  or  three  acts. 

(9.)  Spectacular  plays,  five  acts,  usually 
divided  into  tableaux. 

(10.)  Libretto  for  grand  opera,  five  acts, 
sometimes  with  tableaux. 

(11.)  Libretto  for  opera  comique,  three  or 
four  acts. 

(12.)  Libretto  for  comic  opera,  three  (some- 
times two)  acts. 

(13.)  Burlesques,  with  or  without  music, 
one  to  five  acts. 

(14.)  *'  Curtain  raisers,"  whether  farces  or 
bits  of  true  comedy,  invariably  one  act. 

9.  Length  of  Acts.  —  As  a  general  rule, 
the  acts  should  be  of  about  equal  length,  but 
the  canon  of  the  Sanskrit  drama,  i.  e.,  that  the 
play  shall  resemble  the  end  of  the  cow's  tail, 
the  acts  diminishing  gradually  to  the  close,  is 
not  without  its  advantage.  As  the  entire 
time  of  actual  performance  should  not  much 
exceed  two  hours,  the  average  length  of  act 
for  different  classes  of  plays  will  be  about  as 
follows  :  — 

(1.)  Length  of  five-act  plays.  Twenty- 
five  minutes  to  each  act.  A  better  distribu« 
tion  of  time  would  be  thirty -five  minutes  foi- 
the  first  act ;  fifteen  for  the  fifth  act ;  twenty- 
five  each  for  the  remaining  acts.  This  gives 
a  total  of  two  hours  and  five  minutes. 


60  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

(2.)  Length  of  four-act  plays.  Thirty  min- 
utes to  each  act.  If  the  length  is  to  be  va- 
ried, let  the  first  and  third  acts  be  the  long- 
est. In  that  case,  act  first  should  take  not 
more  than  thirty-five  minutes ;  act  third  not 
more  than  forty  minutes,  leaving  for  act  sec- 
ond thirty  minutes,  and  for  act  fourth  twenty 
minutes.     Total,  two  hours  and  five  minutes. 

(3.)  Length  of  three-act  plays.  —  If  a  three- 
act  play  is  to  be  produced  alone,  that  is,  not 
preceded  by  a  ''  curtain  raiser,"  the  second 
act  should  be  the  longest.  The  following 
proportions  are  generally  observed :  Act  first, 
forty  minutes.  Act  second,  fifty  minutes. 
Act  third,  thirty -five  minutes. 

If  a  three-act  play  is  to  be  preceded  by  a 
"curtain-raiser,"  let  the  three  acts  be  of  30 
minutes  each. 

(4.)  Length  of  two-act  plays.  Except  in 
the  case  of  musical  compositions,  two-act 
plays  are  not  intended  to  furnish  a  full  even- 
ing's entertainment.  The  acts  should  never 
exceed  thirty  minutes  each. 

(5.)  Length  of  one-act  plays.  The  length 
Varies  according  to  the  purpose  for  which  the 
play  is  intended.  A  "  curtain-raiser  "  is  usu- 
ally from  twenty-five  to  thirty-five  minutes 
long.  No  one-act  play  should  exceed  forty 
minutes. 

10.  How  to  determine  the  Length  of  an 
Act.  —  Considerable  experience  is  required  to 
judge  from  the  manuscript  of  a  play  how 


THE  PARTS  OF  A  PLAY.  61 

long  it  will  take  to  perform  it.  Much  de- 
pends on  the  fullness  of  detail  with  which  the 
business  is  indicated,  as  well  as  on  the  char- 
acter of  the  business  itself.  In  spectacular 
plays,  where  the  descriptions  oJ^  scenery,  stage 
inovements,  etc.,  are  of  more  importance  than 
the  lines  themselves,  and  in  low  comedy 
farces  containing  a  great  deal  of  horse-j)lay, 
no  one  but  an  expert  in  such  matters  can 
form  an  exact  estimate  of  the  time  they  will 
occupy.  For  the  general  run  of  modern  plays, 
however,  the  following  rule  will  answer  most 
purposes :  — 

11.  Rule  for  determining  the  Length  of 
a  Play.  —  If  the  production  is  to  occupy  125 
minutes,  the  actual  number  of  words  in  the 
manuscript,  including  lines,  names  of  charac- 
ters before  each  speech,  stage  directions,  and 
business  of  every  description,  should  not  ex- 
ceed 20,000,  all  told,  i.  e.,  the  length  of  the 
manuscript  should  not  exceed  160  words  for 
each  minute  of  actual  performance.  The 
number  of  words,  therefore,  for  each  act  may 
be  found  by  multiplying  the  number  of  min- 
utes required  in  performance  (as  given  in  the 
foregoing  tables)  by  160. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE   ENTER, 

1.  Meaning  of  the  Term.  —  The  appear- 
ance of  a  character  upon  the  stage  during  the 
progress  of  an  act  constitutes  an  enter. 

2.  Discovered  at  Rise.  —  As  before  ex- 
jplained,  a  character  already  upon  the  stage 
at  the  opening  of  the  act  is  not  said  to  enter, 
but  to  be  discovered  at  rise. 

3.  The  Re-enter.  —  The  term  re-enter  is 
used  instead  of  enter  when  a  character  re- 
appears on  the  stage  shortly  after  having 
left  it. 

It  is  evident  that  enter  will,  in  the  manu- 
script, answer  every  purpose  of  re-enter,  but 
the  latter  expression  is  useful  for  the  reader 
both  to  remind  him  that  the  character  has 
recently  appeared  on  the  stage,  and  to  show 
the  relative  importance  of  the  second  appear- 
ance. The  term  return  is  sometimes  used 
for  re-enter. 

4.  When  the  Term  Re-enter  should  be 
used.  —  The  term  re-enter  should  be  used:  — 

(1.)  When  a  character,  having  left  the 
stage,  reappears  before  any  new  or  striking 
feature  of  the  plot  occurs. 


THE  ENTER.  63 

(2.)  When  little  importance  is  to  be  at- 
tached to  the  reappearance. 

(3.)  A  servant  may  enter  at  the  beginning 
of  an  act  and  re-enter  several  times  during  its 
progress. 

6.  Passing  at  Rear.  —  A  series  of  enters 
and  re-enters  on  the  part  of  dumb  characters, 
representing  the  "  company "  [guests,  visi- 
tors, etc.],  is  best  indicated  by  the  phrase 
^^•seen  passing  at  rear,'^  or  "  seen  coming  on 
and  going  off  at  rearP 

When  these  movements  are  supposed  to 
take  place  at  frequent  intervals  during  the 
scene  or  act,  much  repetition  may  be  avoided 
by  noting  the  fact  at  the  beginning.  For  ex- 
ample, "  Sentinel  seen  passing  at  rear  during 
the  scene ; "  *'  Promenaders  seen  coming  on 
and  going  ofE  at  rear  at  intervals  during  the 
act." 

6.  Appearance.  —  A  character  who  is  seen 
or  "  exposed  "  during  the  play,  but  does  not 
come  immediately  upon  the  stage,  is  said  to 
appear.  Under  this  class  fall  all  such  move- 
ments as  sticking  the  head  in  through  a  win- 
dow, opening  and  suddenly  closing  the  door 
of  a  closet  or  other  place  of  concealment, 
peeping  from  behind  a  tree,  etc.  The  term 
is  frequently  used  where  a  character  is  seen 
about  to  enter  but  pauses  momentarily  for  an 
effective  situation  before  entering. 

Thus,  — 


64  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

Hester.  Maxwell  is  dead,  and  dead  men,  thank  heaven  I 
tell  no  talea. 

Maxwell.     [Appears  on  threshold.]    Hester ! 
Hester.     [Screams.]     My  husband  I 
£!nter  Maxwell. 

7.  Management  of  the  Enter.  —  The 
proper  use  and  management  of  the  enters, 
being  to  a  considerable  extent  governed  by 
convention  and  stage  traditions,  are  among 
the  most  difficult  things  which  the  beginner 
has  to  learn.  The  following  rules  will  be 
found  to  cover  the  most  important  cases, 
though  much  must  be  left  to  observation  and 
experience. 

(1.)  Logical  enter. 

(2.)  Conventional  use  of  entrances. 

(3.)  Lines  with  enter, 

(4.)  Use  of  the  tormentors. 

(5.)  Preparing  for  enter. 

(6.)  Stereotyped  forms. 

(7.)  Enters  prepared  for  by  the  plot. 

(8.)  Leading  up  to  enter  of  star. 

(9.)  ]S"ames  mentioned. 

(10.)  Double  enter. 

(11.)  Unnoticed  enter. 

8.  Logical  Enter.  —  The  enter  should  be 
logical.  This  means  that  the  playwright 
should  not  use  the  stage  entrances  arbitrarily, 
but  should  keep  in  mind  the  part  of  the 
house,  if  an  interior,  or  of  the  neighborhood, 
if  an  exterior,  to  which  each  entrance  leads. 

An  entrance  used  for  characters   coming 


THE  ENTER.  66 

from  the  street  should  not,  in  general,  be 
used  for  those  entering  from  a  bedroom  or 
dining-room. 

9.  Conventional  use  of  Entrances. — 
Let  the  student  note  the  following :  — 

(1.)  Characters  coming  into  an  interior 
from  the  street  usually  enter  from  the  rear. 
It  stands  to  reason,  therefore,  that  a  servant, 
answering  the  door-bell,  will  pass  out  one  of 
the  rear  entrances,  generally  C.  D.,  and  re- 
turn ushering  in  the  visitor  at  the  same  en- 
trance. 

(2.)  The  doors  at  right  and  left  may  be 
supposed  to  lead  to,  or  into,  boudoirs,  dining- 
rooms,  drawing-rooms,  library,  etc.,  at  the 
pleasure  of  the  writer,  though  probability  is 
always  to  be  consulted.  Bedrooms,  for  ex- 
ample, are  usually  on  the  opposite  side  from 
dining-rooms. 

(3.)  Servants  coming  from  the  servants' 
quarter  should  be  brought  in  R.  D.  or  L.  D. 

10.  Lines  "with  Enter.  —  The  chief  action 
of  a  play  takes  place  in  the  centre,  well  down 
stage,  i.  e.,  near  the  footlights.  If,  therefore, 
enters  are  made  from  the  rear,  the  entering 
character  will  be  at  some  distance  from  the 
person  on  the  stage,  and  an  awkward  period 
of  silence  may  elapse  while  the  former  is  mak- 
ing his  way  down  to  the  latter.  This  diffi- 
culty may  be  avoided  by  bringing  the  char- 
acter in  at  a  right  or  left  entrance,  near  the 
front,  provided  this  can  be  logically  done ;  or 


66  THE  ART   OF  PLAYWRITING. 

by  furnishing  the  entering  character  with  a 
speech  which  will  carry  him  over  the  inter- 
val. The  following  scene,  for  example,  is 
absolutely  unactable :  — 

Marion.  [Seated  at  R.  front.]  Whose  voice  do  I  hear? 
[Enter  Cameron  L.  D.  rear.]  Robert!  [Falls  into  hi$ 
arms.] 

If  possible,  Cameron  should  be  brought  in 
E..  2  E.  If  not,  the  scene  may  be  rearranged 
in  some  such  fashion  as  this  :  — 

Marion.  [Seated  R.  front.]  Whose  voice  do  I  hear  ? 
[Bises  and  starts  towards  rear.  Enter  Cameron  L.  D.  rear.] 
Robert  ! 

Cameron.  [Coming  down.]  Marion !  Come  to  my 
arms!    All  is  forgiven.     [She  falls  into  his  arms.] 

11.  Use  of  the  Tormentors. —  The  use 

of  the  tormentors  for  entrances  should  be 
avoided,  especially  in  interiors.  If  the  stage 
represents  a  room,  the  further  side  of  the 
tormentor  stands  for  the  front  wall.  Con- 
sequently, in  theory,  the  tormentor  leads 
nowhere.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  the 
rule  is  violated  about  as  often  as  it  is  ob- 
served. 

12.  Preparing  for  Enter.  —  Since  an  enter 
is  an  essential  incident  in  the  plot,  all  enters 
should  be  csiveiullj  prepared  for  or  led  up  to. 
The  reason  for  this  important  rule  will  be  ap- 
parent when  we  come  to  study  the  construc- 
tion of  the  plot.  It  will  be  sufficient  at  this 
point  to  indicate  its  practical  application. 


THE  ENTER.  67 

An  enter  is  prepared  for  or  led  up  to,  when 

the  lines,  business,  or  incidents  immediately 
preceding  are  of  such  a  character  as  to  make 
the  entrance  natural  and  inevitable. 

The  audience  may  or  may  not  be  led  to  an- 
ticipate the  enter.  In  the  former  case  it  is 
customary  to  announce  the  approach  of  the 
character  in  so  many  words,  as,  "  By  my  head, 
here  comes  the  Capulets."  If  the  enter  is 
unexpected,  none  the  less  must  it  appear  to 
the  audience,  as  soon  as  it  occurs,  to  be  nat- 
ural and  to  have  been  inevitable. 

13.  Stereotyped  Forma.  —  An  unmistak- 
able ear-mark  of  the  young  or  slipshod  play- 
wright is  the  use  of  the  hackneyed  expression, 
"  But  I  hear  some  one  coming,"  to  introduce 
an  enter.  The  phrase  itself,  however,  aside 
from  the  fact  that  it  is  hackneyed,  is  not  es- 
pecially objectionable.  What  is  objection- 
able is  its  use  as  a  mere  device  to  get  upon 
the  stage  a  character  that  has  not  been  prop- 
erly prepared  for  by  the  incidents  of  the  plot. 
A  little  ingenuity  will  enable  the  dramatist 
to  dispense  with  such  stereotyped  forms. 

14.  Enters  prepared  for  by  the  Plot.  — 
The  best  enters  are  those  which  grow  natu- 
rally and  easily  out  of  the  plot  and  are  thus 
led  up  to  by  the  incidents  which  precede  them 
without  any  appearance  of  artifice.  The  fol- 
lowing will  serve  as  an  illustration  :  — 

Miss  Lester.  [At  mirror.]  I  know  Walter  yrill  like 
this  dress ;  blae  was  his  favorite  color.     [A  ring  at  the 


68  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITING. 

door-hdl.  ]  There  he  is  now !  [Surveys  hertdf  in  the 
mirror.^ 

Enter  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry. 

Walter's  entrance  later  is  now  well  pre- 
pared for. 

15.  Leading  up  to  Enter  of  Star.  —  The 

enter  of  the  most  important  character  of  the 
play,  especially  if  the  enter  is  to  be  followed 
by  a  strong  situation,  should  be  prepared  for  by 
a  series  of  incidents  and  references  calculated 
to  bring  the  audience  to  a  climax  of  suspense. 

Thus  the  "  Enter  Hamlet "  which  precedes 
the  interview  with  the  queen,  in  the  fourth 
scene,  is  prepared  for  throughout  the  two  pre- 
ceding scenes,  as  follows :  — 

(1.)  Guildenstern  tells  Hamlet  that  the 
queen  has  sent  for  him. 

(2.)  Polonius  enters  and  makes  the  same 
announcement. 

(3.)  Hamlet  replies  that  he  will  go,  and  in 
a  soliloquy  lets  it  be  understood  that  the 
scene  will  be  a  strong  one. 

(4.)  In  the  next  scene  Polonius  tells  the 
king  that  Hamlet  is  on  his  way  to  the  closet. 

(5.)  Hamlet  then  appears  for  a  moment 
but  goes  out  with  the  words  "  My  mother 
stays." 

(6.)  Finally,  Polonius  is  shown  informing 
the  queen  that  Hamlet  "  will  come  straight," 
closing  with  "  I  hear  him  coming." 

All  this  leads  up  to  an  entrance  which  not  a 
few  modern  playwrights  would  consider  sufS.- 


II 


THE  ENTER.  69 

eiently  heralded  by  the  single  speech,  "  but  I 
hear  Hamlet  coming." 

16.  Names  mentioned.  —  In  preparing  for 
an  enter  the  name  of  the  person  expected 
should  be  explicitly  mentioned,  unless  the 
concealment  of  it  is  purposely  designed  as  a 
feature  of  the  plot. 

17.  Double  Enter.  —  It  is  a  safe  rule 
never  to  bring  two  important  characters  on 
the  stage  at  the  same  moment.  The  atten- 
tion of  the  audience  is  divided,  and,  worse 
than  all  else,  the  actors  themselves  have  no 
means  of  knowing  for  whom  the  applause,  if 
there  be  any,  is  intended. 

Strong  comic  effects,  however,  may  often 
be  produced  in  this  way,  and  sometimes,  as 
where  two  enemies  are  brought  face  to  face 
from  opposite  sides  of  the  stage,  powerful 
tragic  situations.  Where  no  such  startling 
effects  are  aimed  at,  face-to-face  encounters 
should  be  avoided. 

18.  Unnoticed  Enter.  —  Avoid,  if  pos- 
sible, the  hackneyed  device  of  bringing  a 
character  upon  the  stage  to  overhear  a  con- 
versation ;  or  if  no  other  resource  is  at  hand, 
at  any  rate  avoid  taking  the  character  off 
again  without  allowing  him  to  be  discovered 
by  the  others  upon  the  stage.  Considerable 
latitude  in  this  regard  must,  of  course,  be 
permitted  in  the  case  of  light  comedy,  bur- 
lesque, or  melodrama. 


CHAPTER  XTL 

THE    EXIT. 

1.  Meaning  of  the  Term.  —  Any  charac- 
ter who  leaves  the  stage  during  the  progress 
of  an  act,  is  said  to  "  exit,'"  If  two  or  more 
characters  leave  the  stage  at  the  same  time, 
the  plural  form,  "ercetm^,"is  used. 

2.  Relation  of  the  Exit  to  the  Lines.  — 
Great  care  must  be  taken  in  managing  the 
exit.  Four  different  varieties  may  be  distin- 
guished :  — 

(1.)  The  exit  to  create  a  situation. 
(2.)  The  exit  without  lines. 
(3.)  The  exit  with  an  apart. 
(4.)  The  exit  with  a  re-enter. 

3.  The  Exit  to  create  a  Situation.  —  As 
every  important  enter  usually  brings  about  a 
situation,  so  every  important  exit  should  cre- 
ate some  degree  of  suspense.  The  object  of 
the  dramatist  should  be  not  merely  to  get  the 
character  off  the  stage,  but  to  make  the  audi- 
ence feel  that  he  is  going  off  for  a  purpose, 
and  so  to  make  them  watch  for  his  return. 
Again,  the  exit  of  a  character  may  give  those 
who  remain  an  opportunity  to  do  what  they 
were  restrained  from  doing  by  h'^  presence, 


THE  EXIT.  71 

or  may  cause  them  to  throw  off  some  disguise 
maintained  for  his  benefit.  Exits  of  this 
kind  require  skillful  management,  and  all 
that  has  been  said  under  this  head,  of  the 
enter,  will  necessarily  apply  to  the  exit. 

4.  Exit  without  Lines.  —  The  exit  with- 
out lines  is  of  three  kinds :  — 

(1.)  The  exit  of  a  servant,  who  leaves  the 
stage  after  an  unimportant  enter,  such  as 
bringing  a  card,  ushering  in  a  guest,  answer- 
ing a  bell  to  receive  an  order,  etc. 

(2.)  The  exit  of  some  of  the  guests,  when 
characters  representing  the  "  company  "  are 
moving  on  and  off  the  stage. 

(3.)  The  exit  unnoticed  by  the  others  on 
the  stage  and  intended  to  create  surprise 
when  the  absence  of  the  character  is  discov- 
ered by  the  further  movement  of  the  plot. 

5.  Exit  with  an  Apart.  —  The  exit  with 
an  a^art  ^  is  intended  to  prepare  for  an  enter, 
and  hence,  usually,  for  a  situation.  In  such 
cases  the  apart  must  consist  of  some  informa- 
tion of  considerable  importance.  The  apart 
may  be  a  "  p'ag',"  ^  and  thus  be  used  with  each 
«xit  of  a  character. 

6.  Exit  with  Re-enter.  —  An  exit  with  an 
immediate  re-enter  is  especially  effective  in 
light  comedies.  It  may  come  under  the  head 
of  reappearance.  In  combination  with  what 
has  been  called  above  the  "exit  to  create  a 
situation"    (3),    the    reappearance    may    be 

^  See  Chapter  xxii.  5.  ^  See  Chapter  viii.  4. 


72  THE  ART  OF   PLAYWRITING. 

made  to  produce  very  comical  situations, 
those  present  on  the  stage  having  to  change 
attitude,  facial  expression,  manners,  etc.,  on 
realizing  that  the  exit  was  only  momentary. 
The  reappearance  in  such  cases  consists  in 
sticking  in  the  head  at  the  door,  etc. 

What  has  been  said  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter of  the  "  Logical  enter,"  "  Conventional 
use  of  entrances,"  "The  tormentors,"  "Pre- 
paring for  enter,"  "  Enter  prepared  for  by  the 
plot,"  is  also  true  of  the  exit. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

DIFFERENT     b6lES     IN     PLATS.  MALE  b6lES. 

1.  Types  of  Chaxacters.  —  Although  the 
conditions  of  dramatic  production  admit  the 
possibility  of  an  inlinite  variety  of  characters, 
the  history  of  the  stage  in  different  countries 
shows  that  all  may  be  referred  to  a  few  gen- 
eral types  marked  by  broad  characteristics  of 
difference.  These  types  occur  over  and  over 
in  the  plays  forming  the  repertories^  of  mod- 
ern theatrical  companies. 

2.  Classification  of  Actors.  —  Actors  are 
classified  according  as  they  customarily  as- 
sume the  part  of  one  type  or  another.  The 
members  of  a  company  are  selected  with  ref- 
erence to  them.  Most  important  of  all,  from 
the  present  point  of  view,  plays  are  now  usu- 
ally written  and  arranged  so  as  to  require  a 
certain  number  and  proportion  of  male  and 
female  actors  of  the  various  classes. 

3.  R61es.  —  The  types  referred  to  above 
are  commonly  termed  roles,  although  this 
word,  it  should  be  noted,  is  also  used  to  sig- 
nify the  part  of  any  particular  character  in  a 

^  The  French  word  ripertoire  h  also  in  common  UMb 


74  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

particular  play,  as  the  role  of  Macbeth,  Ju« 
liet,  and  so  on. 

4.  Male  R&les.  —  The  principal  male  roles 
are  as  follows  :  — 


(10 

The  Star. 

(2.) 

The  Leading  Man. 

(3.) 

The  Heavy. 

(4.) 

The  First  Old  Man. 

(5.) 

The  Second  Old  Man. 

(6.) 

The  Comedian. 

(7.) 

The  Light  Comedian. 

(8.) 

The  Low  Comedian. 

(9.) 

The  Eccentric  Comedian. 

(10.) 

The  Villain. 

(11.) 

The  Juvenile. 

(12.) 

The  Walking  Gentleman. 

(13.) 

The  Utility  Man. 

(14.) 

The  Super  or  "  Supe  "  (supernumerary). 

5. 

The  Star.  —  An  actor  (presumably  of 

unusual  attainments)  who  habitually  plays 
the  leading  role  is  called  a  star.  Plays  in 
which  the  leading  role  is  strongly  marked 
go  by  the  name  of  star  plays,  and  the  impor- 
tant roles  are  called  star  roles,  or  star  parts. 
In  a  company  where  there  is  a  star,  the  re- 
mainder of  the  company  is  known  as  the 
support. 

6.  Star  Plays.  —  When  star  plays  are  writ- 
ten to  order,  the  part  of  the  star  is  usu- 
ally emphasized  at  the  expense  of  the  rest  of 
the  characters.  The  star  is  given  the  lion's 
share  of  the  strong  situations,  kept  upon  the 


DIFFERENT  r6LES  IN  PLATS.  75 

stage  during  the  greater  portion  of  each  act, 
and  made  the  obvious  centre  of  interest  and 
attraction  during  the  entire  performance. 
The  lines  and  incidents  of  the  plot  are  so  ar- 
ranged as  to  give  him  every  opportunity  for 
displaying  his  peculiar  gifts.  Everything 
which  might  detract  from  his  importance  is 
carefully  excluded,  and  not  unfrequently  the 
other  roles  in  the  play  are  reduced  to  mere 
nonentities  in  order  that  the  star  may  shine 
the  more  brilliantly  by  force  of  contrast.  Ex- 
amples of  star  plays  in  which  all  the  charac- 
ters are  given  strongly  marked  individuality 
are  rare  outside  of  the  Shakespearean  reper- 
tory. 

7.  Double  Stars.  —  A  few  plays  are  so 
arranged  as  to  afford  equal  opportunities  to 
two  different  actors.  Such  are  the  parts  of 
Othello  and  lago  in  Othello,  of  Brutus  and 
Cassius  in  Julius  Ccesar,  etc.  The  last-named 
play  may  almost  be  said  to  have  three  star 
roles,  since  the  part  of  Antony  falls  but  lit- 
tle below  the  other  two  in  point  of  interest. 

8.  The  Leading  Man.  —  In  star  play»  the 
leading  man  plays  the  male  role  next  in  im- 
portance to  that  of  the  star.  If  the  star  is  a 
lad}^,  the  leading  man,  in  about  ninety-nine 
cases  out  of  a  hundred,  plays  the  part  of  her 
lover.  In  stock  companies,  the  leading  man 
fills  the  place  of  the  star,  whenever  the  play 
calls  for  one. 

9.  The  Heavy.  —  An  actor  who  habitually 


76  THE  ART  OP  PLAYWRITING. 

plays  serious  parts,  devoid  of  comedy  ele« 
ments,  and  calling  for  considerable  manifes- 
tation of  strong  feeling,  is  called  a  heavy. 
The  parts  of  the  King  and  of  the  Ghost  in 
Hamlet  would  be  taken  by  heavies.  Actors 
of  this  type  who  are  qualified  to  assume 
important  roles  are  spoken  of  as  leading 
heavies. 

10.  First  Old  Man.  —  The  old  men  are 
distinguished  from  the  heavies  by  their  gray 
hair.  The  most  important  old  man  charac- 
ter, in  a  play  which  calls  for  more  than  one, 
is  called  the  first  old  man.  The  part  is  usu- 
ally dignified,  exhibiting  the  nobler  and  more 
pathetic  qualities  of  old  age,  such  as  tender- 
ness of  feeling,  magnanimity,  etc.  Less  fre- 
quently the  first  old  man  portrays  the  vices 
of  old  age. 

11.  Second  Old  Man.  —  If  the  play  calls 
for  two  characters  representing  old  men,  the 
less  prominent  of  the  two  is  called  the  second 
old  man.  The  second  old  man  is  not  infre- 
quently a  comic  character. 

12.  The  Comedian.  —  An  actor  who  is 
qualified  to  assume  important  comedy  roles  is 
called  a  comedian.  In  comedies  the  star  is  a 
comedian. 

13.  The  Light  Comedian.  —  The  comedi- 
an's business  is  to  interpret  comic  characters. 
The  light  comedian  makes  it  his  aim  to  cause 
amusement  partly  by  representation  of  char- 
acter, but  mostly  by  tricks  of  manner,  gesture, 
and  voice,  and  by  witty  lines. 


DIFFERENT  r6lES  IN  PLAYS.  77 

14.  The  Low  Comedian.  —  The  business 
of  the  low  comedian  is  to  excite  laughter.  To 
this  end  he  resorts  to  any  effective  device,  no 
matter  how  undignified,  irrelevant  or  incon- 
sistent. There  is  usually  but  little  pretense 
of  character-drawing.  In  the  lower  class  of 
theatres  the  part  of  the  low  comedian  consists 
largely  of  horse-play  —  rude  rough-and-tumble, 
tripping  over  chairs,  falling  into  the  water, 
etc.  In  the  better  theatres  and  in  first-class 
plays,  low-comedy  roles  are  sometimes  made 
to  have  considerable  dramatic  value  by  the 
selection  of  characters  representative  of  the 
lower  classes  of  life. 

16.  The  Eccentric  Comedian.  —  A  com- 
edian who  gives  himself  up  to  the  portrayal 
of  odd  and  whimsical  freaks  of  character  i.* 
called  an  eccentric  comedian. 

16.  The  Villain.  —  The  character  in  a 
play  who  represents  the  evil  tendencies  of 
human  nature,  and  hence  seeks  to  frustrate 
the  purposes  of  the  nobler  characters,  is 
called  the  villain.  The  villain  may  be  either 
a  heavy  or  a  comedian.  In  the  older  plays, 
he  was  almost  invariably  the  former,  and 
when  uncommonly  wicked  and  blood-thirsty 
was  known  as  the  heavy  villain.  At  the 
present  day  it  is  not  unusual  to  give  the  vil- 
lain a  touch  of  comedy,  generally  of  a  satiri- 
cal kind.  There  has  been  some  discussion  of 
late  over  the  question  whether  the  villain 
may  not  be  dispensed  with  altogether,  but 


78  THE  ART  OF  PLAY  WRITING. 

until  human  nature  undergoes  a  radical  change 
it  is  not  likely  that  this  interesting  character 
will  be  eliminated  either  from  real  life  or 
from  the  drama. 

17.  The  Juvenile.  — An  actor  who  habitu- 
ally undertakes  youthful  roles  is  called  a  ju- 
venile. The  supposed  age  of  the  character 
represented  may  range  anywhere  from  fifteen 
to  thirty  years. 

18.  The  Walking  Gentleman.  —  A  role 
requiring  simply  presence  on  the  stage  and 
few  if  any  lines  to  speak,  and  yet  one  which 
is  an  essential  part  of  the  play,  is  commonly 
taken  by  the  walking  gentleman.  Where  a 
part  calls  for  a  speech,  it  is  called  a  "  speak- 
ing part." 

19.  The  Utility  Man.  —  An  actor  who  can 
make  himself  generally  useful  on  and  off  the 
rtage  and  who,  though  unqualified  to  assume 
important  roles,  is  able  to  fill  a  minor  va- 
cancy in  case  of  emergency,  is  called  a  utility 
man. 

20.  The  Super.  —  Non-professional  per- 
sons hired,  for  a  single  performance  or  a  series 
of  performances,  to  represent  unimportant 
parts,  such  as  waiters,  soldiers,  a  mob,  etc., 
are  called  supernumeraries,  supers  or  supes. 
The  super  who  leads  in  the  enter  or  exit  of 
a  company  of  supers  is  called  captain  of  the 
supers. 

21.  Character  Actor.  —  An  actor  who  cul- 
tivates the  power  of  representing  with  equal 


DIFFERENT  ROLES  IN  PLAYS.  79 

facility  widely  different  characters  is  called  a 
character  actor.  If  the  characters  represented 
embrace  those  commonly  called  for  in  the 
modern  repertories,  he  is  called  an  all-around 
character  actor. 

22.  Doubling  up.  —  As  but  few  of  the 
characters  of  a  play  are  upon  the  stage  at  the 
same  moment,  except  in  important  climaxes, 
it  is  sometimes  possible  so  to  arrange  the  ac- 
tion that  one  actor  may  play  two  parts.  This 
is  known  as  doubling  up.  In  Hamlet,  for  in- 
stance, the  same  personage  might  represent 
both  the  King  and  the  Ghost,  since  the  two 
are  never  upon  the  stage  together.  In  ar- 
ranging such  parts,  care  should  be  taken  to 
see  that  the  actor  who  doubles  up  has  suffi- 
cient time,  after  leaving  the  stage,  to  dress 
for  the  second  character. 


CHAPTER  Xiy. 

DIFFEBENT      r6lES      IN      PLAYS.   —  FEMALE 

b6les. 

1.  Classification    of    Female    R61es.  — 

The  principal  female  roles  are :  — 

(1.)  The  Star. 

(2.)  The  Leading  Lady. 

(3.)  The  Emotional  Actress. 

(4.)  The  First  Old  Woman. 

(5.)  The  Second  Old  Woman. 

(6.)  The  Comedienne. 

(7.)  The  Soubrette. 

(8.)  The  Ingenue. 

(9.)  The  Adventuress. 
(10.)  The  Juvenile. 
(11.)  The  Walking  Lady. 
(12.)  The  Utility  Woman. 

2.  Correspondence  to  Male  Rdles.  — 
All  that  has  been  said  with  regard  to  male 
roles  applies  equally  well  to  the  correspond- 
ing female  roles.  The  female  roles  that  have 
no  correspondence  whatever  with  male  roles 
are :  — 

(1.)  The  Soubrette. 

(2.)  The  Ingenue. 

The  adventuress  answers  in  the  main  to  the 


DIFFERENT  R&LES  IN  PLAYS.  81 

male  villain,  and  tlie  emotional  actress  to  the 
male  heavy. 

3.  The  Soubrette.  —  The  term  soubrette, 
originally  applied  to  the  intriguing  chamber- 
maid of  the  old  French  comedy,  is  now  used 
of  any  pert,  frivolous,  sprightly,  and  youthful 
female  character.  The  favorite  part  for  the 
soubrette  is  still  that  of  the  chambermaid, 
but  star  soubrette  parts  are  not  uncommon. 
At  least  one  prominent  actress  —  Lotta  —  has 
made  fame  and  fortune  in  almost  purely  sou- 
brette roles. 

4.  The  Ingenue.  —  The  characteristics  of 
the  ingenue  are  youth,  simplicity,  and  artless 
innocence,  generally  mingled,  in  modern  plays, 
with  a  generous  proportion  of  sentiment. 
The  ingenue  may  have,  and  generally  does 
have,  opportunities  for  strong  demonstration, 
thus  bordering  on  the  province  of  the  emo- 
tional actress.  Again,  the  ingen^^e  may  ap- 
proach the  soubrette  in  comedy  lines  ;  but  the 
comic  should  be  rather  a  humorous  elabora- 
tion of  simplicity  than  an  obviously  ingenious 
witticism. 

5.  Arrangement  of  Cast.  —  A  stock  com- 
pany cast^  comprises  the  following  li«^t  of 
actors : — 

(1.)  The  Leading  Man. 
(2.)  The  First  Old  Man. 
(3.)  The  Comedian. 

*  A  "  cast "  13  an  acting  company  to  whom  psxta  4»*  as- 
signed; hence  the  expression,  casting  a  play. 


82  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

(4.)  The  Second  Old  Man. 
(5.)  The  Light  Comedian. 
(6.)  The  Villain. 
(7.)  The  Juvenile  (male). 
(8.)  The  Leading  Lady. 
(9.)  The  First  Old  Woman. 
(10.)  The  Comedienne. 
(11.)  The  Soubrette. 
(12.)  The  Ingenue. 
(13.)  The  Juvenile  (female). 
6.  Cast  of  Traveling  Companjes. — The 
cast  of  traveling  companies  is  made  up  of  the 
characters   needed    for  the    performance    of 
some  one  or  two  plays,  unless  the  company 
on  the  road  is  a  stock  company. 

There  are  very  few  plays  on  the  road  that 
require  more  than  ten  characters. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHAT   CONSTITUTES   A   PLAY. 

1.  Definition.  —  In  the  broadest  sense,  a 
play  is  a  complete  and  unified  story  of  human 
life  acted  out  on  the  stage  in  a  series  of  mo- 
tived incidents  so  arranged  as  to  excite  the 
greatest  amount  of  interest  and  pleasure  in 
the  spectator  by  means  of  novelty,  variety, 
contrast,  suspense,  surprise,  climax,  humor, 
and  pathos. 

This  is  not  intended  for  an  exact  scientific 
definition ;  but  as  it  covers  the  essential  fea- 
tures of  all  plays  produced  at  the  present 
day,  it  is  much  better  adapted  for  our  purpose 
than  any  of  the  definitions  which  have  come 
down  to  us  from  antiquity.  A  closer  exami- 
nation of  it  will  suggest  the  following  points, 
which  will  be  taken  up  and  discussed  in  the 
order  given :  — 

(1.)  The  story. 

(2.)  What  constitutes  a  story. 

(3.)  Characters. 

(4.)  Characters  suited  to  the  story. 

(5.)  Characters  distinguished. 

(6.)  Self-consistency  of  characters. 

(7.)  Characters  as  foils. 

(8.)  Completeness. 


84  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITINQ. 

(9.)  Unity. 

(10.)  The  three  unities. 

(11.)  Unity  of  action. 

(12.)  Unity  of  time. 

(13.)  Unity  of  place. 

(14.)  The  story  must  be  one  that  can  be 
acted. 

(15.)  The  story  must  be  suited  to  stage 
conventions. 

(16.)  Motived  incidents. 

(17.)  Interest  and  pleasure.* 

(18.)  Kovelty. 

(19.)  Variety  and  contrast. 

(20.)  Suspense. 

(21.)  Surprise. 

(22.)  Climax. 

(23.)  Humor  and  pathos. 

(24.)  Where  stories  come  from. 

(25.)  Character  of  good  stories. 

(26.)  Adaptation. 

(27.)  Adapting  novels. 

(28.)  Adapting  foreign  plays. 

2.  The  Story.  —  The  first  and  most  essen- 
tial feature  of  a  play  is  the  story.  It  may  be 
very  simple,  or  it  may  be  very  complex.  It 
may  be  no  more  than  :  John  wants  to  marry 
Susan,  but  cannot  because  Dick  has  told  her 
that  John  is  in  love  with  Mary ;  John  dis- 
covers  Dick's   villainy   and  marries    Susan.' 

^  See  Chapter  XVI.,  in  which  this  and  the  following 
sub-titles  will  be  discussed. 

2  The  plot  of  one  of  the  most  popular  plays  of  the 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  PLAT.  85 

Many  successful  plays  have  had.  no  better 
formula  than  this. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  story  may  be  a  con- 
fused tangle  of  ingenious  complications  as 
hard  to  separate  as  a  Chinese  puzzle.  In  any 
case  there  must  be  a  story  of  some  sort,  — ■ 
somebody  must  steal,  or  kill,  or  deceive,  or 
love,  or  wed,  —  or  there  can  be  no  play.  The 
first  thing,  then,  that  the  playwright  must 
provide  himself  with,  is  a  good  story,  or,  bet- 
ter, a  collection  of  good  stories. 

3.  What  Constitutes  a  Story.  —  Every 
story  that  has  any  value  for  dramatic  pur- 
poses may  be  reduced  to  the  following  for- 
mula :  — 

A  (standing  for  one  or  more  characters)  is 
trying  to  achieve  some  purpose.  A  is  op- 
posed by  B  (representing  one  or  more  charac- 
ters), who  tries  to  prevent  A  from  carrying 
out  his  design.  After  a  series  of  incidents,  in 
which  first  one  and  then  the  other  seems  to 
have  the  upper  hand,  A  finally  succeeds  in 
frustrating  the  designs  of  B,  and  either  ac- 
complishes the  end  sought  or  is  killed. 

4.  Characters.  —  As  the  story  is  one  of 
human  life,  it  treats  of  the  actions  of  men  and 
women,  and  in  consequence  has  characters. 

In  the  selection  of  his  characters,  the  play- 
wright has  an  almost  unlimited  range ;  but 
four  requirements  must  be  observed  :  — 

century,  Hazel  Kirke,  may  be  stated  in  this  way :    She  is 
married ;  no,  she  is  not ;  yes,  she  is ! 


86  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

(1.)  The  characters  must  be  suited  to  the 
story,  —  the  story  to  the  characters. 

(2.)  The  characters  must  be  clearly  distin- 
guished one  from  another. 

(3.)  The  characters  must  be  self-consistent. 

(4.)  The  characters  must  be  so  selected  and 
arranged  that  each  one  may  serve  as  a  foil  to 
another. 

5.  Characters  Suited  to  the  Story.  — . 
The  incidents  of  the  story  must  seem  to  grow 
out  of  the  nature  of  the  characters,  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  incidents  must  react  on 
the  characters  to  produce  the  result  aimed  at. 

In  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  the  trial  scene 
is  the  direct  outcome  of  Shylock's  avarice  and 
race  prejudice.  Put  generous  Othello  in  Shy- 
lock's  place  and  the  trial  scene  would  be  an 
absurdity.  Equally  absurd,  on  the  other  hand, 
would  it  have  been  to  represent  the  keen-wit- 
ted Shylock  as  believing  in  lago's  veracity. 

6.  Characters  Distinguished.  —  As,  in 
real  life,  no  two  persons  are  exactly  alike,  so 
in  a  play  each  character  must  be  marked  off 
from  every  other,  down  to  the  least  impor- 
tant. A  skillful  dramatist  will  manage  to  do 
this  by  a  single  touch.  Thus  the  one  line  in 
which  Shakespeare  characterizes  Robin  Ost- 
ler, "  never  joy'd  since  the  price  of  oats  rose," 
distinguishes  him  from  all  other  characters. 

The  distinguishing  marks  should  be  real 
elements  of  character,  not  mere  tricks  of 
dress,   manner,   or   speech.      A  set   form  of 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  PLAY.  87 

\rord8  put  always  into  the  mouth  of  the  same 
character  is  called  a  gag. 

7.  Self  -  Consistency  of  Characters.  — 
Each  personage  must  be  made  to  say  and  do 
exactly  what  is  appropriate  to  his  character. 
A  flagrant  violation  of  this  rule  is  found  in 
Boucicault's  London  Assurance  (as  commonly 
performed),  where  that  selfish  old  reprobate, 
Sir  Harcourt,  is  given  at  the  close  a  speech 
teeming  with  lofty  sentiments  and  exalted 
morality. 

As  Aristotle  points  out,  a  character,  to  be 
consistent  with  itself,  must  often  be  drawn 
as  inconsistent.  An  inconsistent  woman,  for 
example,  would  be  self-consistent  only  if  por- 
trayed in  all  her  characteristic  inconsistency. 

8.  Characters  as  Foils.  —  As  will  be 
shown  later,  contrast  is  one  of  the  instru- 
ments of  dramatic  effect.  An  avaricious 
character,  like  Shy  lock,  stands  out  much 
more  vividly  when  a  generous  nature,  like 
Antonio's,  stands  over  against  it  as  a  foil. 

Plays  composed  entirely  of  vicious  or  en- 
tirely of  virtuous  characters  would  be  insuf- 
ferable. The  characters  should  be  so  selected 
and  arranged  that  in  each  scene  the  promi- 
nent characteristics  of  each  may  be  made 
more  prominent  by  contrast  with  the  others 
of  the  same  group. 

9.  Completeness.  —  By  a  complete  story 
is  meant  one  that  has  a  beginning,  a  middle, 
and  an  end.     A  story  is  complete  when  it  is 


88  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITIN6. 

told  SO  that  the  listener  does  not  need  to  ask 

■what  happened  before  it  began,  nor  care  to 
ask  what  happened  after  it  concluded.  When 
we  have  heard  a  complete  story  through  to 
the  end,  we  know  all  that  there  is  to  tell. 
When  a  play  like  Othello,  for  example,  has 
come  to  a  close,  the  spectator  feels  that  he 
has  been  put  in  possession  of  every  fact 
about  Othello  and  the  other  characters  that 
he  needs  to  know.  No  additional  knowledge 
of  Othello's  career  previous  to  the  opening  of 
the  play  would  afford  him  any  satisfaction, 
nor  does  he  care  to  know  what  happens  after 
the  curtain  falls. 

A  remarkable  but  successful  violation  of 
this  requirement  may  be  found  in  Sardou's 
Daniel  Rochat,  in  which  the  curtain  falls  just 
before  the  decisive  step  is  taken  Avhich  would 
relieve  the  spectator's  suspense.  Whether 
atheism  or  religion  is  master  of  the  situation, 
is  a  problem  left  for  the  audience  to  solve. 
It  need  hardly  be  said  that  no  playwright  of 
ordinary  powers  would  dare  try  this  bold  ex- 
pedient, or,  having  tried  it,  would  stand  one 
chance  in  a  hundred  of  succeeding. 

With  an  incomplete  story,  the  spectator  is 
left  unsatisfied :  he  wants  to  know  what  hap- 
pened before  the  play  opened,  in  order  to  un- 
derstand what  occurred  during  its  progress ; 
he  is  not  satisfied  with  the  close,  and  wants 
to  know  what  is  going  to  happen  next. 

10.  Unity.  —  The  story  must  be   unified. 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  PLAY.  89 

This  has  been  variously  interpreted,  but  the 
most  sensible  view  is,  that  all  the  incidents  of 
the  story  must  be  made  to  cluster  about  a 
single  central  animating  idea.  One  purpose 
must  be  seen  to  run  throughout  the  whole 
series  of  incidents.  If  there  are  two  series  of 
incidents,  they  must  be  so  woven  together 
that,  at  the  end  of  the  story,  it  will  be  evident 
that  one  could  not  have  taken  place  without 
the  other.  This  constitutes  the  unity  of  ac- 
tion. 

11.  The  Three  Unities.  —  The  French 
critics  of  the  seventeenth  century  distin- 
guished three  separate  kinds  of  unity :  — 

(1.)  The  unity  of  action. 
(2.)  The  unity  of  time. 
(3.)  The  unity  of  place. 

12.  Unity  of  Action.  —  The  narrowest  of 
the  French  critics  understood  the  unity  of 
action  to  mean  that  the  play  should  have  a 
single  event  and  a  single  hero. 

13.  Unity  of  Time.  —  Following  an  am- 
biguous statement  in  Aristotle's  Poetics,  the 
French  critics  restricted  the  time  of  the  play 
to  twenty -four  hours.  An  extension  to  thirty 
hours  was  barely  permitted. 

14.  Unity  of  Place.  —  This  unity  required 
that  there  be  no  change  of  scene  during  the 
entire  play. 

It  is  important  to  notice  that  the  three 
unities,  in  their  historical  significance,  were 
the  invention  of  French  criticism.    From  this 


90  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

source,  they  were  adopted  for  a  time  by  Eng- 
lish playwrights.  At  the  present  time,  the 
terms  no  longer  have  any  meaning,  save  in 
the  historical  sense,  when  speaking  of  plays 
written  under  the  influence  of  the  old  rules 
of  criticism.  No  one  pretends  to  regard  them 
at  the  present  day.  It  is  still  convenient, 
however,  to  speak  of  the  unity  of  action,  not 
in  the  old  sense,  but  with  the  meaning  defined 
in  No.  10  of  this  chapter. 

15.  The  Story  must  be  One  that  can  be 
Acted.  —  Unless  the  story  is  one  that  can 
be  acted  out  on  the  stage  by  men  and  women, 
it  is  worthless  for  dramatic  purposes.  It  is 
not  enough  that  it  can  be  told  or  narrated  ;  it 
must  be  acted.  It  must  find  its  natural  ex- 
pression in  those  movements  of  the  human 
body  which  tell  of  passion,  emotion,  and  re- 
solve. It  must  be  a  story  capable  of  being 
told  in  dagger-thrusts,  kisses,  frowns,  sighs, 
laughter,  caresses,  eating,  fighting,  and  dying. 
If  it  can  be  expressed  in  dumb  show,  then  it 
satisfies  at  least  one  requirement  of  dramatic 
construction  ;  if  it  cannot,  it  may  make  a  good 
novel  or  a  good  poem,  but  it  will  never  make 
a  successful  drama. 

16.  The  Story  must  be  Suited  to  Stage 
Conventions.^  —  In  the  preceding  chapters, 
the  nature  of  the  stage,  its  devices  and  its 
limitations,  have  been  clearly  set  forth.  It 
is  upon  this  stage  that  the  story  must  be 

^  See  chapter  zy.  8. 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  PLAY,  91 

acted,  and  to  the  conventions  and  limitations 
of  this  stage  it  must  conform.  A  story  in 
which  a  dozen  people  are  represented  as 
present  throughout  the  entire  narrative,  may 
be  very  pleasant  in  the  telling,  but  it  will 
never  do  for  the  stage,  where  there  must  be 
enters  and  exits  to  give  life  and  variety  to  the 
scene.  A  story  of  the  war,  in  which  a  tree  is 
cut  in  two  by  a  cannon-ball  and  throws  a  spy 
who  has  been  hiding  in  it  headlong  througli 
the  window-sash  of  a  house,  may  be  the  most 
delightful  sort  of  reading,  and  yet  be  wholly 
impracticable  for  stage  production. 

In  these  days  of  "  tank  "  dramas,  however, 
the  possibilities  of  stage  effect  are  by  no 
means  exhausted,  and  some  boldness  in  this 
direction  may  not  go  unrewarded. 

17.  Motived  Incidents.  —  The  story,  when 
acted  out  upon  the  stage,  takes  the  form  of  a 
series  of  incidents.  Not  every  series  of  inci- 
dents, however,  will  constitute  a  play.  The 
incident  must  be  motived.  This  means  that 
the  cause  of  every  incident  must  be  apparent 
in  some  incident  that  has  preceded  it  and 
serves  as  a  motive  for  it.  Every  event  must 
be  seen  to  grow  naturally  out  of  what  has 
gone  before,  and  to  lead  naturally  to  what 
comes  after.  An  incident  which  is  introduced 
arbitrarily,  simply  for  effect,  is  called  clap- 
trap. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

WHAT   CONSTITUTES    A   PLAT. MEANS    OP 

CKEATIXG    INTEREST. 

1.  Interest  and  Pleasure.  —  The  story 
must  interest  and  please.  This  is  the  funda- 
mental law  of  the  modern  drama.  It  is  not 
forbidden  the  dramatist  to  point  a  moral,  or 
discuss  a  social  problem ;  but  these  are  side 
issues,  extra-dramatic  effects,  which  he  must 
undertake  at  his  own  risk.  His  first  and  his 
last  business,  as  a  playwright,  is  to  tell  such 
a  story,  and  to  tell  it  in  such  a  way,  that  his 
audience  will  be  forced  to  listen,  and,  listen- 
ing, cannot  fail  to  be  delighted. ■* 

2.  Novelty.  —  An  important  requirement 
of  a  dramatic  story  is,  that  it  be  fresh  and 
original.  Nothing  wearies  us  like  a  stale  anec- 
dote, a  joke  we  heard  the  day  before.  If  the 
playwright  have  any  originality  in  him,  by  all 
means  let  him  exercise  it  in  the  invention  of 
new  incidents.  Still  it  must  not  be  forgotten 
that  an  old  story,  told  in  a  new  way,  possesses 
all  the  charm  of  a  new  one.  A  certain  interest 
also  attaches  to  well-known  events  in  history 
that  compensates  for  their  lack  of  novelty. 

^  This  subject  will  be  taken  up  and  discussed  later  on. 
See  Chapter  zxiii.  2. 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  PLAT.  93 

3.  Variety  and  Contrast.  —  Monotony  is 
the  bugbear  of  the  dramatist.  In  order  to 
escape  it,  he  must  exercise  all  the  inventive 
power  of  which  he  is  possessed  to  vary  the 
character  of  the  incidents  as  they  follow  one 
another.  Pathos  must  be  followed  by  humor, 
wit  by  eloquence,  "  talky  "  passages  by  quick- 
succeeding  scenes  of  incident,  soliloquies  by 
the  rapid  give-and-take  of  dialogue.  The  en- 
tire act  should  be  a  rapidly  shifting  kaleido- 
scope, presenting  new  features  at  every  turn. 

Variety  not  only  destroys  monotony,  but  it 
secures  the  powerful  effect  of  contrast.  A  bit 
of  humor  is  twice  as  effective  if  it  follows  an 
instant  of  pathos  or  even  of  commonplace. 
Brilliant  dialogue  seems  doubly  brilliant  after 
a  monologue. 

4.  Suspense.  The  most  important  means 
of  arousing  interest  is  suspense.  Keep  a  lis- 
tener in  doubt  as  to  what  is  coming,  and  he 
cannot  help  but  listen.  Suspense  is  the  ner- 
vous system  of  the  drama.  In  some  form  or 
another,  it  must  exist  throughout  the  entire 
progress  of  the  story.  At  various  points  of 
the  play,  generally  at  the  close  of  each  act,  it 
may  be  partially  relieved,  but  it  must  always 
be  done  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  rise  to  new 
suspense,  or  to  leave  one  or  two  particulars 
still  unsettled.  Not  until  the  last  moment  of 
the  story  should  every  item  of  doubt  be 
cleared  away. 

This  does  not  mean  that  the  audience  is 


94  THE  ART  OF  PLAT  WRITING. 

invariably  not  to  be  told  -what  is  coming.  It 
is  a  curious  fact  of  human  nature,  that  we 
await  an  event  with  no  less  interest,  and  some- 
times with  greater  interest,  when  we  know 
exactly  what  is  coming,  than  when  we  are  left 
in  ignorance  of  its  nature,  —  provided  the 
story  is  told  in  such  a  way  as  to  arouse  our 
sympathy.  This  is  one  reason  why  the  best 
plays  may  be  heard  over  and  over  again  with- 
out losing  their  powerful  fascination  over  us. 

If  the  dramatist  is  sure  of  his  powers,  it  is 
a  very  effective  device  to  take  the  audience 
into  his  confidence,  let  them  see  just  what  is 
coming,  and  depend  upon  his  skill  in  telling 
the  story  to  keep  them  in  a  state  of  suspense. 
A  successful  play  written  upon  this  plan  is 
sure  of  a  much  longer  life  than  one  which  de- 
pends on  mere  surprise  through  unexpected 
incidents. 

5.  Surprise.  —  Nevertheless,  surprise  is 
one  of  the  most  potent  of  stage  effects.  An 
audience  may  be  startled  or  shocked  into  a 
state  of  interest  when  no  other  device  would 
be  of  any  avail.  Surprises  are  most  valuable 
in  light  comedies,  which  sometimes  consist  of 
little  more  than  a  succession  of  startling  in- 
cidents. In  more  serious  plays,  too  sudden 
surprises  give  the  story  an  unpleasantly  ab- 
rupt and  "  jerky  "  character.  The  surprise, 
in  such  cases,  must  be  in  a  manner  prepared 
for ;  the  audience  must  be  made  to  have  a 
dim  foreboding  of  the   impending   disaster, 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  PLAT.  95 

while  its  exact  nature  is  left  a  matter  of  sur* 
mise. 

6.  Climax.  —  A  regular  increase  of  force 
and  interest  culminating  in  a  strong  situation 
is  called  climax.  A  dramatic  story  should  be 
full  of  climaxes  from  beginning  to  end.  Every 
act  should  have  several  lesser  ones  scattered 
through  it,  and  should  invariably  end  with 
one  of  greater  importance.  Toward  the  end 
of  the  play  should  occur  the  great  climax,  in 
the  technical  sense  of  the  word,  ^  i.  e.,  the 
point  at  which  the  interest  of  the  play  reaches 
its  highest  stage.  All  the  incidents  leading 
up  to  a  striking  situation  should  be  arranged 
in  the  form  of  a  climax,  growing  gradually  in 
force  until  the  last  is  reached.  The  situation 
concluding  a  climax  generally  takes  the  form 
of  a  tableau,  or  stage  picture. 

The  technical  climax  must  be  carefully  dis- 
tinguished from  the  catastrophe,  Avhich  last  — 
in  tragedies  especially  —  is  often  the  strong- 
est situation  of  the  play. 

7.  Humor  axid.  Pathos.  —  Except  in  the 
lighter  sort  of  comedy,  the  two  elements  of 
humor  and  pathos  are  always  introduced  in 
the  modern  drama.  No  one  any  longer  thinks 
of  writing  pure  tragedy  for  the  stage,  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  most  salable  comedies 
are  those  which  have  a  few  touches  in  them 
of  genuine  pathos. 

8.  "Where   Stories  come  from.  —  There 

^  See  Chapter  xix. 


96  THE  ART  OF  PLAT  WRITING. 

are  no  rules  for  collecting  stories.  They 
must  come  from  observation  of  life,  from  con- 
versation, from  reading,  from  old  newspaper 
scraps,  —  anywhere,  in  a  bit  of  life  vividly 
told,  may  lurk  the  germ  of  a  first-class  dra- 
matic story.  Many  dramatists  will  confess 
to  having  had  their  best  ideas  suggested 
while  reading  old  and  forgotten  novels.  Many 
more,  if  they  could  be  made  to  confess,  would 
acknowledge  their  indebtedness  to  French 
brochures.  A  good  story,  wherever  it  comes 
from,  is  a  priceless  gem,  and  the  playwright 
who  has  a  note-book  full  of  them  has  the  be- 
ginnings of  a  valuable  stock-in-trade. 

9.  Character  of  Good  Stories.  —  The 
best  stories  for  dramatic  purposes  require 
few  presuppositions,  and  those  of  a  character 
capable  of  being  implied  rather  than  demand- 
ing explicit  statement.  The  story  must,  of 
course,  be  of  such  a  character  that  it  can  be 
symmetrically  developed  under  the  dramatic 
form.  The  drama  is  a  regular,  orderly  growth, 
and  neither  a  story  which  consists  of  a  series 
of  episodes  following  one  after  the  other  like 
knots  in  a  string,  nor  one  which  shoots  sud- 
denly upwards  to  a  resplendent  climax,  and 
as  suddenly  goes  out  in  utter  darkness,  is  of 
any  value  for  purposes  of  dramatization. 

10.  Adaptation.  —  There  are  two  kinds  of 
adaptation :  — 

(1.)  The  dramatization  of  a  novel. 
(2.)  The   translation   and    alteration  of  a 
play  written  in  another  language. 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  PLAT.  97 

11.  Adapting  Novels.  —  aSTot  every  novel 
can  be  successfully  adapted,  for  the  reason 
that  its  success  may  arise  from  features  which 
do  not  admit  of  transference  to  the  stage. 
The  first  point  to  notice  in  every  case  is  the 
action.  If  the  interesting  portions  of  the 
novel  depend  for  their  interest,  not  on  what 
the  characters  say,  but  on  what  they  do,  the 
novel  probably  has  dramatic  possibilities. 

12.  Adapting  Foreign  Plays.  —  This  pro- 
cess, so  easy  to  the  professional  playwright,  is, 
for  the  beginner,  almost  a  hopeless  task.  Ex- 
cept in  rare  instances,  nothing  but  a  large  ex- 
perience with  the  conventions  of  the  American 
stage  and  the  demands  of  the  American  public 
will  enable  the  adapter  to  decide  what  por- 
tions of  the  foreign  production  will  be  effec- 
tive. Some  plays  need  only  to  be  translated, 
with  a  little  cutting  here  and  there.  Others, 
and  by  far  the  greatest  number,  must  be  abso- 
lutely reconstructed,  the  characters  altered 
and  re-named,  the  minor  incidents  invented 
anew,  the  whole  play  denationalized  and 
worked  over  on  the  American  plan. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THEORETICAL    CONSTRUCTION. 

Exposition. 

In  the  preceding  chapters  we  have  seen 
■what  a  play  is,  and  what  the  elements  are 
that  go  to  its  construction.  We  have  now  to 
consider  the  process  by  which  the  material  is 
to  be  put  together  in  organized  form. 

1.  Making  the  Outline.  —  The  story  of 
the  play  having  been  decided  upon,  the  first 
step  is  to  make  a  rough  outline  of  the  drama 
that  is  to  be.  As  has  been  said,  every  dra- 
matic story  has  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an 
end.     These  are  known  respectively  as,  — 

(1.)  The  exposition,  or  introduction. 
(2.)  The  height,  or  climax. 
(3.)  The  close,  or  catastrophe. 

2.  Intervals.  —  Names  are  also  given  to 
the  intervals  between  the  above  stages  of  the 
story,  as  follows  :  — 

(1.)  The  growth,  rise,  or  tying  of  the  knot. 

(2.)  The  fall,  untying,  or  denouement. 

The  growth,  rise,  or  tying  of  the  knot  is  all 
that  comes  between  the  exposition  and  the 
height. 

The  fall,  untying  or  denouement,  is  all  that 
comes  between  the  height  and  the  close. 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  99 

The  significance  of  these  terms  may  be  made 
apparent  to  the  eye  by  means  of  the  following 
diagram :  — 


a  Beginning  of  the  action. 

ah  Exposition. 

be  Growth. 

c  Height. 

cd  Fall. 

d  Close,  or  catastrophe. 

The  word  denouement  is  frequently  used 
as  an  equivalent  for  catastrophe.  This  is  in- 
correct. It  is  literally  the  untying  (French 
denouer,  to  untie),  and  includes  all  between 
the  height  and  the  close. 

3.  Purpose  of  the  Exposition.  —  Before 
the  curtain  rises,  the  audience  knows  no  more 
of  the  story  than  can  be  learned  from  the 
playbill  or  programme.  From  this  source 
they  may  be  expected  to  ascertain  only  the 
names  and  chief  peculiarities  of  the  charac- 
ters, the  time  and  place  of  the  supposed  ac- 
tion, the  number  of  acts,  and  a  vague  sugges- 
tion of  what  the  story  is  to  be.^  Consequently 
«t  is  necessary,  at  the  beginning  of  the  play, 
^  See  Chapter  xii.  2  and  3. 


100  THE  ART  OF   PLAYWRITINQ. 

to  put  the  spectator  in  possession  of  all  the 
facts  necessary  to  a  perfect  comprehension  of 
the  story  as  it  unrolls  before  him.  All  this 
explanatory  part  of  the  play,  before  the  real 
movement  begins,  is  called  the  exposition. 

4.  Management  of  the  Exposition.  — 
The  art  of  the  exposition  lies  in  introducing 
all  the  necessary  facts  without  interrupting 
the  flow  of  the  action. 

5.  Methods  of  Exposition.  —  The  prin- 
cipal methods  of  exposition  are  the  follow- 
ing: — 

(1.)  Prologue. 

(2.)  Allowing  the  characters  to  narrate  the 
facts. 

(3.)  Arranging  the  first  part  of  the  action 
in  such  a  way  that  it  will  tell  all  the  facts 
while  carrying  on  the  story  at  the  same  time. 

6.  The  Prologue.  —  The  prologue  is  of 
two  kinds  :  — 

(1.)  The  spoken  prologue. 
(2.)  The  acted  prologue. 

7.  The  Spoken  Prologue.  —  This  favorite 
device  of  old  English  comedy  —  a  few  lines 
of  verse  recited  by  one  of  the  actors  before 
the  rising  of  the  curtain  —  has  passed  entirely 
out  of  vogue.  In  its  latter  days  it  lost  its 
explanatory  function,  and  served  merely  as  a 
vehicle  of  social  satire.  A  similar  bit  of  verse 
or  prose,  recited  after  the  play,  is  called  the 
epilogue.  Few  modern  audiences  will  wait 
for  an  epilogue. 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  101 

8.  The  Acted  Prologue.  —  The  acted  pro- 
logue is  frequently  used  to  introduce  events 
occurring  some  years  before  the  main  action 
of  the  play  takes  place.  It  is  generally  a 
bunglesome  device,  and  indicates  that  the 
dramatist  does  not  have  his  story  well  in 
hand.  Moreover,  it  does  not  escape  the  main 
difficulty,  because  the  prologue  must  itself 
have  an  exposition. 

The  original  form  of  the  acted  prologue  was 
the  dumb  show,  in  which  the  main  features 
of  the  play  were  acted  out  in  pantomime.  An 
example  of  this  may  be  found  in  the  play 
performed  before  the  court  in  Hamlet.  The 
function  of  the  dumb  show  is  fulfilled  in 
modern  times  by  the  printed  playbill  or  pro- 
gramme. 

9.  Exposition  by  Narration.  —  The  most 
obvious  method  of  presenting  explanatory 
matter  is  to  put  it  in  the  mouth  of  one  of  the 
characters.  Thus  the  young  dramatist,  if  it 
is  necessary  for  the  audience  to  know  that 
Angelina  is  a  foundling,  will  bring  in  two 
characters,  seat  them  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
stage,  and  make  one  of  them  begin  as  fol- 
lows :  "  It  is  a  strange,  sad  story.  You  must 
know  that  one  cold  rt'inter  night,  seventeen 
years  ago,  a  basket  was  left  upon  my  door- 
step," and  so  on,  until  the  story  is  told. 

The  impropriety  of  this  method  will  ap- 
pear if  we  remember  that  the  essence  of  the 
drama  is  action,  not  narration.     Scenes  of  this 


102  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

character,  even  when  broken  up  into  dialogue, 
are  invariably  prosy  and  wearisome,  and 
should  always  be  avoided.  It  is  not  practi- 
cable entirely  to  dispense  with  the  narrative 
element,  but  it  should  be  reduced  to  the 
smallest  possible  proportions. 

10.  Spirited  Narration.  —  A  very  effec- 
tive form  of  narrative  exposition  is  to  make 
one  of  the  characters,  discovered  at  rise,  de- 
scribe the  action  supposed  to  be  going  on  out- 
side the  stage.  This  admits  of  considerable 
action,  and  forms  a  good  preparation  for  the 
enters  which  follow.  The  following  is  the 
opening  scene  of  Meilhac  and  Halevy's  Frow- 
Frou,  in  Daly's  brilliant  adaptation  :  — 

Pauline  is  discovered,  as  the  curtain  rises  to  merry 
music,  arranging  a  bouquet  in  a  vase  at  L.  The  noise  of 
a  whip  is  heard,  and  she  turns  and  looks  off,  R.,  through 
the  arch. 

Pauline.  Who 's  coming  now  ?  [Goes  to  the  arches 
and  looks  off.]  WTiy,  if  it  is  n't  Mademoiselle  Gilberte 
and  that  charming'  M.  de  Valreas !  What  on  earth  can 
be  the  matter,  that  they  are  galloping  in  that  way  ?  Oh, 
Monsieur  might  have  spared  his  horse.  Mademoiselle 
always  comes  in  first.  Now  he  's  assisting  her  to  dis- 
mount. They  are  coming  here  !  [  She  runs  to  the  vase  of 
flowers  again.\  How  long  they  are!  [Turns.]  Made- 
moiselle must  have  gone  to  her  room  direct.  \Returns  to 
arch,  C.  ]  That 's  certain,  for  here  comes  M.  de  Valreas 
alone.     How  gracefully  he  bears  defeat ! 

Enter  Valreas,  R.  C. ,  looking  back. 

Another  illustration  may  be  found  in  the 
exposition  of  Robertson's  Rome  :  — 

Lucy  discovered  seated  on  a  so/a,  L.  C,  holding  a  note. 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  103 

Lucy.  [Agitated.}  It  'a  past  twelve.  What  can  it 
mean  ?  [Reading.^  "  Will  come  in  by  the  kitchen  gar- 
den when  I  have  watched  your  papa  out."  \^Looking 
from  window.}  There  he  is !  There  's  my  Bertie  !  [Kiss- 
ing her  hand.]  He  's  standing  on  the  gate !  He  sees  me ! 
Now,  he 's  tumbled  down  and  hurt  himself  !  Poor  fel- 
low !  I  know  he 's  bruised.  That  nasty  gate,  to  go  and 
let  him  fall !  Why,  he  's  coming  in  at  the  window,  and 
not  at  the  door !  What  does  this  mean  ?  [Enter  Bertie 
from  B.  window,  limping.]     Bertie! 

11.  Points  of  Effectiveness.  —  Notice,  in 
both  the  foregoing  instances,  — 

(1.)  That  the  scene  described  is  a  vivid  and 
exciting  one. 

(2.)  That  it  is  one  in  which  the  observer  is 
intensely  interested,  especially  in  the  second 
illustration. 

(3.)  That  it  gives  opportunity  for  action, 
emotion,  expression  of  consternation  by  ges- 
tures, etc. 

(4.)  That  it  leads  at  once  to  an  enter,  the 
scene  outside  being,  so  to  speak,  immediately 
transferred  to  the  stage. 

Many  striking  instances  of  effective  narra- 
tion might  be  pointed  out  in  modern  plays; 
but  they  are  placed,  not  at  the  beginning,  but 
in  the  body  of  the  play,  after  the  spectator's 
sympathy  has  been  secured.  In  other  cases, 
as,  e.  g.,  the  long  narrative  of  the  last  act  of 
The  Bells  (an  adaptation  of  Erckmann-Cha- 
trian's  Le  Juif  Polonnais),  rendered  with  so 
great  effect  by  Mr.  Irving,  the  accompanying 
action  deprives  the  lines  of  their  narrative 
character. 


104  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

12.  Exposition  made  Part  of  the  Story. 

—  This  is  the  only  truly  artistic  method  of 
exposition.  It  is  also  by  far  the  most  diffi- 
cult, often  taxing  the  dramatist's  ingenuity  to 
the  utmost.  In  many  cases  where  it  appears 
impracticable,  the  fault  will  be  found  to  lie, 
not  with  the  method  or  the  dramatist,  but  in 
the  faulty  and  incoherent  construction  of  the 
story  itself.  The  test  of  a  well-built  story  is 
not  infrequently  its  ability  to  carry  along 
with  it  its  own  exposition. 

13.  Implication.  —  The  means  most  often 
used  to  make  the  action  form  its  own  exposi- 
tion is  implication  ;  i.  e.,  the  information  is 
indirectly  implied,  not  directly  told.  It  may 
be  implied,  — 

(1.)  By  words. 
(2.)  By  action. 

14.  Implication  by  Words.  —  An  illus- 
tration may  be  used  to  make  this  method 
clear : — 

The  curtain  rises  and  discovers  a  gentle- 
man and  a  servant.  The  things  to  be  told 
the  audience  are,  — 

(1.)  The  gentleman's  name. 

(2.)  The  fact  that  he  has  come  to  call  or. 
the  master  of  the  house. 

(3.)  That  the  master  of  the  house  is  his  in- 
timate friend. 

(4.)  That  his  friend  is  married. 

(5.)  That  he  has  married  an  heiress,  and 
fallen  into  luxurious  habits. 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  105 

The  direct  method  of  exposition  would  sus- 
pend the  action  of  the  story  while  one  char- 
acter or  the  other  gives  this  information. 
The  following  dialogue,  from  Augier's  Le 
Gendre  de  Monsieur  Poirier,  will  show  how 
these  facts  may  be  implied  in  the  words  used 
to  carry  on  the  action ;  the  action  being  in  this 
case  the  call  itself,  and  the  determined  effort 
of  the  caller  to  see  the  master  of  the  house :  — 

Servant.  I  must  tell  you  again,  sir,  that  you  cannot 
see  the  marquis.     He  is  not  yet  out  of  bed. 

Hector.  At  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning !  [ylsiVfe.] 
To  be  sure,  the  sun  rises  late  during  the  honeymoon. 
\^Aloud.]     When  do  they  breakfast  here  ? 

Servant.     At  eleven.     But  what 's  that  ;;o  you  ? 

Hector.     Put  on  a  plate  for  me    .  .  . 
Enter  Gaston. 

Gaston.     What!     You?     [They  embrace.] 

Servant.     [Aside.\     A  nice  mess  I  've  made  of  it  1 

Hector.     Dear  Gaston ! 

Gaston.     Dear  Hector ! 

15.  Analysis  of  Implication  by  Words. 
—  Notice  in  the  above,  — 

(1.)  How  the  fact  that  Hector  cannot  see 
Gaston  (a  part  of  the  action)  is  made  to  im- 
ply that  Gaston  is  luxurious  in  his  habits  (a 
part  of  the  exposition). 

(2.)  How  Hector,  in  accounting  for  his  fail- 
ure to  see  Gaston  (action),  implies  that  Gaston 
is  married  (exposition). 

(3.)  How  Hector's  remark  to  the  servant, 
"  Put  on  a  plate  for  me,"  implies  that  he  has 
been  a  familiar  friend  of  Gaston's. 


106  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

(4.)  How  the  natural  exclamations  of  tbti 
two  men  in  greeting  one  another  are  made  to 
tell  the  name  of  each. 

For  further  illustration,  take  the  opening 
of  the  Long  Strike,  in  which  Boucicault  intro- 
duces a  meeting  of  the  mill-owners,  and  makes 
the  proceedings  of  this  meeting  serve  to  acr 
quaint  the  audience  with  the  particulars  of 
the  strike :  — 

Parlor  of  Seven  Star  Inn.  Armttage  discovered  at 
table ;  Brooke,  R.,  corner  table ;  Aspinwall,  L.,  second 
chair;  Readley  at  table;  Crankshaw  discovered  at  door, 
a.  3  H. ;  noise  outside ;  voices  outside  at  rise  ;  music. 

Armitage.     Have  you  dispersed  the  crowd  ? 

Crankshaw.  No,  sir  ;  the  people  are  very  orderly,  but 
they  will  not  move  on. 

Readley.  The  street  below  is  impassable  ;  the  mob  in- 
creases. 

Armitage.  Very  well.  {Exit  Crankshaw.  Armitage 
rises.}  Gentlemen,  we  have  to  deal  with  a  most  perilous 
crisis.  The  workin^men  of  Manchester  have  now  main- 
tained the  longest  strike  on  record.  The  claims  I  advanced 
some  weeks  ago  were,  I  confess,  extravagant ;  but  I  hear 
that  moderate  counsels  have  lately  prevailed  amongst 
them.  Let  us  hope  that  tlie  moment  has  arrived  when, 
by  mutual  concession  — 

Readley.  I,  for  one,  will  concede  nothing.  The 
longer  this  strike  is  maintained,  the  more  salutary  wiU 
be  the  lesson.  Their  suffering,  wantonly  self-inflicted, 
■will  remain  a  tradition  amongst  similar  combinations. 

Brooke.  I  agree  with  Mr.  Readley.  Concession,  to 
these  people,  is  encouragement 

Crankshaw.  The  deputation  of  the  working  committee 
IB  below,  gentlemen. 

Enter  Crankshaw  R.  3  E. 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  107 

Armitage.  How  is  it  composed  ?  D'  ye  know  the 
men? 

Crankshaw.    Yes,  sir.     There 's  Noah  Learoyd  — 

Armitage.  The  crazy  enthusiast  ?  I  am  sorry  he  is 
amongst  them.     Well  ? 

Crankshaw.  James  Starkee,  John  O'Dick,  and  Old 
Sharrock. 

Beadley.    These  are  the  ringleaders. 

16.  Implication  by  Action.  —  An  illus- 
tration will  suffice  for  this  also  :  — 

While  several  persons  are  on  the  stage,  a 
gentleman  enters,  and  finds  himself  face  to 
face  with  a  lady.  Both  start  back  in  extreme 
surprise,  stare  at  each  other  for  an  instant, 
then,  as  they  recover  their  composure,  bow 
coldly,  and  the  lady  exits,  while  the  gentle- 
man glances  after  her  out  of  one  corner  of 
his  eye  ;  without  a  word  being  said,  the  audi- 
ence has  been  told  that  these  two  characters 
have,  at  some  time  in  the  past,  sustained  rela- 
tions to  each  other. 

17.  Length  of  Exposition.  —  The  neces- 
sary explanations  should  be  introduced  as 
near  the  beginning  of  the  play  as  possible, 
since,  if  brought  in  later,  when  the  story  is 
fairly  under  way,  they  interrupt  the  action 
and  dissipate  the  interest.  As  a  rule,  the  ex- 
planatory matter  should  be  all  in  by  the  end 
of  the  first  act,  in  a  five-act  play,  or,  in  gen- 
eral, before  one  fifth  of  the  play  is  completed. 

A  new  character,  introduced  in  the  middle 
or  latter  part  of  a  play,  sometimes  demands 


108  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITING. 

further  exposition.  In  such,  cases,  a  proper 
preparation  for  enter  *  will  convey  all  needed 
explanation.  In  most  cases,  it  will  be  found 
inexpedient  to  introduce  new  characters  after 
the  exposition  proper,  unless  there  is  a  chance 
to  double  up.^ 
1  See  Chapter  xL  12.  «  See  Chapter  xiii.  22. 


I 


CHAPTEE  XVIII. 

THEORETICAL   CONSTRUCTION    {continued). 

Growth. 

1.  Growth  and  Exposition.  —  The  gro-wth, 
or  tying  of  the  knot,  has  been  defined  as  in- 
cluding all  that  portion  of  the  story  which 
lies  between  the  exposition  and  the  point  of 
greatest  interest.  Practically,  however,  there 
is  no  strictly  drawn  boundary  line  betAveen 
exposition  and  growth.  The  interest  of  the 
best  plays  begins  with  the  opening  lines. 
The  action  develops  uninterruptedly.  What- 
ever exposition  is  needed  is  conveyed,  as  was 
explained  in  the  last  chapter,  by  implication, 
and  so  forms  part  of  the  growth  itself.  It  is 
convenient,  however,  to  speak  of  the  exposi- 
tion as  continuing  until  all  the  presupposi- 
tions have  been  set  forth,  and  all  the  charac- 
ters introduced. 

2.  Conflict  and  Plot.  —  As  before  ex- 
plained, every  dramatic  story  is  founded  on 
the  conception  of  a  character  striving  to  ac- 
complish some  purpose  in  which  he  is 
thwarted  by  another  character.  This  brings 
about  a  conflict,  or  clash  of  interests,  which 
becomes  more  serious  and  more  complicated 


110  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

as  tlie  play  proceeds,  and  forms  tlie  intrigue 
or  plot. 

3.   Beginning    of    the    Growth.  —  The 

growth  properly  begins,  then,  at  the  point  at 
which  the  disturbing  element  is  introduced. 
We  have  perhaps  a  quiet  scene,  introducing 
two  or  three  of  the  principal  characters. 
Every  one  seems  fairly  happy,  and  everything 
seems  going  fairly  well,  when,  suddenly,  in 
comes  some  character  whose  mission  is  to  de- 
stroy this  peace  and  serenity.  In  a  moment 
all  is  turmoil  and  consternation.  The  main 
action  has  begun.  The  virtuous  characters 
struggle  to  maintain  their  happiness,  the  vil- 
lain strives  to  undermine  them.  Plot  and 
counter-plot  follow  in  quick  succession,  until 
the  interest  culminates  in  the  climax. 

An  example  may  be  taken  from  Peacock^s 
Holiday,  an  adaptation,  by  H.  C.  Merivale,  of 
Labiche's  Le  Voyage  de  Monsieur  Perichon. 
Eobin  Swayne  and  Stephen  Tickell  are  two 
young  men  in  love  with  Mary  Peacock.  Mary 
being  on  a  tour  in  Wales  with  her  father, 
Eobin  thinks  it  a  good  chance  to  get  ahead  of 
his  rival  by  taking  the  same  tour,  and  so  fall- 
ing in  with  the  Peacock  family  apparently  by 
accident. 

Scene :  Exterior  of  an  inn  among  the  Welsh  mountains. 

Robin.  [Throwing  himself  on  the  bench.]  This  after- 
noou !  Then  I'm  just  in  the  nick  of  time.  I  daresay 
old  Peacock  will  ask  me  to  join  the  party,  and,  once  let 
me  do  so,  I  '11  see  if  I  can't  stick  on  for  the  rest  of  the 
tour.     Fancy  being  in  a  Welsh  car  with  Mary  Peacock ! 


I 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  Ill 

Dear  Mary,  what  a  surprise  it  will  be  to  her  to  see  me  ! 
In  London  there  was  always  somebody  in  the  way,  espe- 
cially that  fellow  Tickell,  ray  oldest  friend.  But  I  've 
got  rid  of  him  now ;  he  never  would  have  thought  of  fol- 
lowing Mary  down  to  Wales.  He's  off  to  Switzerland 
for  his  month's  holiday,  and  thinks  I  'm  ditto  to  Scot- 
land. Hang  it,  how  tired  I  am  !  Where 's  that  beer  ? 
Enter  Stephen,  R.  C,  with  knapsack. 

Stephen.     Waiter !     Pint  of  beer,  and  a  bedroom. 

Robin.  [^Jumping  up ;  aside.]  That  voice !  Tickell  I 
Confound  it ! 

Stephen.  [Seeing  him  ;  aside.\  That  face  !  Swayne ! 
Damn  it ! 

Robin.  [Asidei]  I  fancied  the  fellow  was  safe  in 
Switzerland. 

Stephen.  {Aside.\  I  thought  the  beggar  was  snug  in 
Scotland. 

The  clash  of  interest  has  begun,  and  the 
growth  is  fairly  started. 

4.  Elements  of  the  Conflict.  —  The  con- 
flict of  interests  is  not  by  any  means  confined 
invariably  to  the  virtuous  and  the  wicked,  al- 
though, in  all  plays  of  a  serious  character,  a 
conflict  of  this  nature  is  certain  to  be  found. 
In  comedy,  the  clash  usually  comes  about 
through  misunderstandings  of  various  sorts, 
though  the  same  means,  if  properly  employed, 
will  bring  to  pass  scenes  of  a  highly  pathetic 
and  even  tragic  character. 

In  the  first  act  of  Frou-Frou,  Louise  be- 
lieves, up  to  a  certain  point,  that  Sartorys  is 
in  love  with  her.  Notice  how  this  misunder- 
standing results  in  a  conflict  of  interests  in 
the  highest  degree  pathetic :  — 


112  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

Louise.     [To  Sartorys.\     How  late  you  are  to-day  I 

[Her  manner  must  evince  love  for  him  and  pleasure  in 
his  company.     She  motions  to  a  chair  ;  they  sit.] 

Sartorys.  [Seriously i\  I  suppose  I  'm  late  because  I 
left  home  earlier  than  usual.  {_Louise  laughs.]  I  '11  ex- 
plain. I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  here  that  I  started 
from  the  chateau  at  a  full  gallop ;  but  when  I  got  within 
a  hundred  paces  of  the  gate  I  stopped,  turned  my  horse, 
and  for  a  whole  hour  walked  him  about  the  neighbor- 
hood. I  came  back  to  the  gate  three  times,  and  three 
times  turned  away  again.  The  fourth  time,  however,  I 
did  like  all  cowards  when  they  make  up  their  minds  to 
be  brave.  I  plunged  in  head  foremost,  and  here  I  am,  a 
little  later  than  usual,  perhaps,  but  still  here  I  am. 

Louise.  [Who  has  followed  himwith  interest  and  laugh- 
ingly, but  now  beginning  to  show  her  emotion.]  What  was 
the  cause  of  this  hesitation  ? 

Sartorys.  It  is  because  I  have  decided  to  say  some- 
thing to-day  that  I  have  wished  to  say  for  the  last  month. 
That  is  the  reason  why  I  trembled  all  the  way  here,  and 
why  I  still  — 

Louise.     If  what  you  have  to  say  is  so  very  serious  — 

Sartorys.     [Seriously.]     It  is. 

Louise.     [Moved.  ]     Perhaps  you  had  better  wait  — 

Sartorys.  Oh,  no,  I  must  positively  go  through  with 
it  to-day.  Besides,  before  I  speak  I  can  gain  courage  by 
remembering  how  good  you  have  always  been  to  me. 
And  then,  your  father  authorized  me  to  — 

Louise.     Oh,  if  papa  — 

Sartorys.  He  did !  And  more  than  that,  he  said  I 
must  first  speak  to  you. 

Jjouise.     [Deep  emotion.]     To  me  ! 

Sartorys.  [Taking  her  hand.]  Have  you  not  guessed  ? 
I  am  in  love. 

Louise.     [Scarcely  audible.]     You  love ! 

Sartorys.  Yes  !  I  love  madly,  devotedly  —  your  sis- 
ter !   Gilberte  ! 

[Louise,  as  if  petrified,  at  first  says  nothing ;  simply 
raises  her  eyes  to  Sartorys,  then  — ] 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  113 

Louise.     Gilberte ! 

Sartorys.     Did  you  not  suspect  it  ? 

Louise.     \Breath.less.\     No. 

5.  Main  and  Subsidiary  Actions.  —  The 

story,  if  told  in  the  most  straightforward  way, 
would,  in  most  cases,  soon  be  over  with.  It 
is  necessary  to  prolong  it,  to  expand  it  at  va- 
rious points,  to  give  it  variety  and  contrast. 
This  is  partly  effected  by  the  introduction  of 
new  characters  at  opportune  points,  bringing 
in  fresh  life  and  interest  at  the  very  moment 
when  the  action  seems  about  to  flag ;  but 
mainly  by  the  use  of  subsidiary  actions,  off- 
shoots of  the  main  action,  but  yet  so  inti- 
mately connected  with  it  that  the  attention 
will  not  be  distracted  from  the  movement  of 
the  plot  as  a  whole. 

6.  Example  of  Subsidiary  Action.  —  In 
Act  I.,  Scene  3,  of  the  Long  Strike,  we  are 
introduced  to  Noah  Learoyd's  dwelling.  The 
main  action  of  the  play  is  the  reply  of  the 
mill-owners  to  the  demand  of  the  workmen's 
delegates.  The  plain  and  straightforward 
telling  of  the  story  demands  that  the  dele- 
gates be  brought  on  the  stage  at  once,  and 
the  result  of  their  mission  related.  Instead 
of  this,  the  writer  skillfully  introduces  a  sub- 
sidiary scene,  as  follows  :  — 

Noah's  dwelling.  Gentleman  from  London,  Jack  O^  Bobs, 
Tom  O'Bills,  Maggie,  Susan,  and  two  small  children,  and 
all  the  mill  hands  discovered  at  change.  Clerk,  seated  at 
table,  upon  which  is  a  bag  of  money,  ledger,  writing  mate- 
rials, and  lighted  candles;  crowd  gathered  round  table i 
murmurs  by  crowd. 


114  THE  ART  OF  PL  AY  WRITING. 

Gentleman  from  London.  [Taking  L.  of  C,  back  to 
audience,  reading  list.]  Susan  'Olland,  two  Ainfaiits  and 
von  'usband,  Aoperatives  Aon  the  strike ;  one  shilling 
and  threepence  for  the  man,  Aeightpence  for  the  woman, 
and  threepence  a  'ead  for  Aeach  Ainfant ;  total,  two  an' 
threepence  ha'penny. 

Maggie.  [As  Susan  is  about  to  take  money.]  Stop  I 
Her  man  is  dead.  Thou  hast  no  right  to  draw  for  he, 
lass ! 

Gentleman.     Dead  ? 

Tom.     Aye,  he  be  as  dead  as  a  door-post. 

Gentleman.  For  shame,  Mrs.  'Olland!  'ow  could  you 
Aimpose  Aon  the  "  London  Central  Strike  Fund  ?  " 

Susan.     Oh,  sir,  my  babies  are  clemming. 

Gentleman.     Clemming  ?     Wliat  does  she  mean  ? 

Jack.     Starving,  sir ;  that 's  all. 

Gentleman.  Ketire,  Mrs.  'Olland,  babies  Aain't  on  the 
list.     [Reads.]     Jack  O'Bobbs ! 

Jack.     That 's  me. 

Gentleman.  Full-growed  Aoperatives,  one  and  three- 
pence. 

[Clerk  hands  money  to  Jack.] 

Jack.  [Turns  to  Susan.]  Here,  lass,  take  it.  I  can 
clem  better  than  thee  and  thy  childer. 

[Gives  money  to  Susan.     Crowd  murmurs  approvingly.] 

Tom.  That 's  right,  Jack,  thou  art  a  good  lad,  and  as 
long  as  I  have  a  shilling  we  '11  share  it  together. 

Omnes.     Aye,  aye ! 

Tom.     But  here  comes  the  delegates. 

Omnes.    Aye  !  the  delegates,  the  delegates ! 
Ejiter  Noah,  Sharrock,  Staley,  and  O'  Dick. 

Noah.  [Making  way  through  crowd ;  stands  by  table.'\ 
We  came  from  the  masters. 

Omnes.     Well,  well  ? 

Noah.  [Hands  paper  to  Clerk,  who  hands  it  to  Gentle- 
man from  London.]  There,  man,  read  it  out,  for  I  've 
not  the  heart  to  do  it. 

Gentleman.  [Reads.]  "  The  masters  give  you  twenty- 
four  hours  to  return  to  work.     [Murmwrs.]     After  that 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  115 

time,  every  mill  will  be  closed  against  you.  IMurmurs.  ] 
No  further  communications  will  be  received.  Signed,  for 
the  Masters'  League,  Richard  Readley." 

7.  Analysis  of  Illustration.  —  Notice  in 
the  above  passage  the  following  points,  which 
may  be  laid  down  as  rules  for  the  subsidiary 
action :  — 

(1.)  The  scene  is  of  itseK  an  interesting 
one. 

(2.)  It  is  closely  connected  with  the  main 
action,  since  it  shows  the  desperate  condition 
to  which  the  operatives  have  been  reduced. 

(3.)  It  leads  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  dele- 
gates with  the  reply  of  the  mill-owners,  the 
hard  conditions  being  made  to  seem  doubly 
hard  by  the  misery  portrayed  in  the  preceding 
lines. 

It  is  perhaps  worthy  of  mention,  that  the 
enter  of  the  delegates  is  not  as  well  prepared 
for  as  it  might  be.  Tom's  exclamation,  "  But 
here  comes  the  delegates,"  is  too  evidently 
merely  a  device  for  getting  them  on.  A  word 
or  two  of  anxiety  earlier  in  the  scene,  on  the 
part  of  some  of  those  present,  would  have 
obviated  this  defect. 

8.  Episodes.  —  The  playwright  must  be 
especially  cautioned  against  the  introduction 
of  episodes,  subsidiary  actions  or  scenes 
which  do  not  carry  on  the  main  action.  How- 
ever interesting  an  episode  may  be  of  itself, 
however  humorous  or  pathetic,  it  should  be 
ruthlessly  cast  aside  unless  it  in  some  way 


116  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITINQ. 

helps  on  the  principal  current  of  the  story. 

To  put  the  same  fact  in  another  way,  what- 
ever can  be  taken  out  of  the  play  without  in- 
terrupting the  flow  or  decreasing  the  interest 
of  the  story  should  be  left  out  altogether. 

9.  Series  of  Climaxes.  —  If  the  story 
grows  continually  in  interest,  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  various  characters,  with  their  con- 
flicting aims,  will  lead  to  a  series  of  situa- 
tions and  climaxes,  which  themselves  will  be 
arranged  in  a  climax.  Thus,  if  we  employ 
the  diagram  used  in  the  last  chapter,  the 
growth  of  Bulwer's  Lady  of  Lyons  may  be 
represented  as  follows  :  — 


h  Beauseant  rejected.     Act  I.,  So.  1. 

c  The  plan  of  revenge.     Act.  I.,  Sc.  2. 

d  Claude  rejected.     Act  I.,  Sc.  3. 

e  The  offer  of  revenge.     Act  I.,  Sc.  3. 

f  Claude,  as  the  Prince,  suffers  remorse^ 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRCCTION.     117 

but  consents  to  marry  Pauline.    Act  II.,  Sc.  1. 

g    The  fight  with  Damas.     Act  II.,  Sc.  1. 

h   The  Prince  warned  to  fly.    Act  II.,  Sc.  1. 

i  Pauline  consents  to  an  immediate  mar- 
riage.    Act  II.,  Sc.  1. 

j  Claude  refuses  Beauseant's  money.  Act 
III.,  Sc.  1. 

k  Pauline  discovers  the  deception.  Act 
III.,  Sc.  2  {grand  climax). 

The  exposition,  in  this  play,  extends  from 
a  to  (2. 


CHAPTEE  XIX. 

THEOEETicAL  CONSTRUCTION  (continued). 
The  Height,  or  Grand  Climax. 

1.  Tying  of  the  Knot.  —  From  the  pre- 
ceding chapter  it  will  readily  appear  that  the 
business  of  the  growth  is  to  involve  the  hero 
and  heroine  in  apparently  inextricable  diffi- 
culties. Each  new  turn  of  the  plot  winds  the 
coils  firmer  and  tighter  about  the  hero  or 
heroine,  until  a  stage  is  reached  at  which 
there  seems  no  possible  chance  of  escape. 
Things  have  come  to  the  worst  imaginable 
pass.  The  ingenuity  of  the  playwright  has 
reached  a  point  where,  within  the  limits  of 
the  story,  it  can  no  further  go.  All  the  sus- 
pense which  has  been  growing  from  the  be- 
ginning  of  the  play  is  concentrated  in  one 
grand  situation.  The  knot  is  tied,  and  all 
that  is  left  to  do  is  to  untie  it  as  skillfully 
as  may  be.  This  point  of  highest  interest  is 
the  Climax,  or  Height. 

2.  Rules  of  the  Height. — The  highest 
point  of  interest  should  meet  the  following 
requirements  :  — 

(1.)  It  should  be  a  direct  consequence  of 
the  preceding  action. 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  119 

(2.)  It  should  sum  up  all  the  preceding 
climaxes.  (This  is  in  case  there  is  but  a 
single  height.     See,  this  chapter,  No.  6.) 

(3.)  It  should  occur  in  the  latter  half  of 
the  play. 

3.  Height  as  Consequence  of  the 
Growth.  —  This  principle  might  perhaps  be 
stated  more  practically  in  the  form  of  a  cau- 
tion :  Do  not  use  a  striking  situation  as 
climax  just  because  it  has  elements  of 
strength.  A  "  strong "  situation  is  a  fine 
thing ;  and,  once  found  or  imagined,  it  should 
be  placed  where  it  can  be  laid  hold  of  at  a 
moment's  notice.  But,  as  part  of  an  actual 
play,  it  will  be  worse  than  wasted  unless  it  is 
the  natural  outcome  of  all  the  action  that  has 
preceded.  The  grand  climax  must  not  be 
tacked  on  at  the  end  of  a  row  of  incidents ;  it 
must  appear  to  grow  out  of  them  as  naturally 
and  inevitably  as  a  flower  from  its  bud. 

4.  Height  as  Summing  up  of  the 
Growth.  —  In  an  artistically  written  play, 
the  height  will  appear  to  gather  together  all 
the  striking  scenes  that  have  preceded  it,  and 
to  pass  them  in  review.  The  reason  for  this 
will  appear  from  tlie  foregoing  paragraph. 
The  height  is  the  direct  outcome  of  the 
growth.  When  it  occurs,  the  spectator  rapidly 
traverses  in  mind  all  the  stages  of  interest 
from  the  beginning  of  the  play,  and  seems  to 
find  a  reason  for  them  all  in  the  situation  be* 
fore  him. 


120  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

5.  Place  of  the  Height.  —  Throughout  the 
growth,  the  problem  of  the  dramatist  is  to 
build  up  the  interest  progressively  by  adding 
one  complication  after  another.  After  the 
climax  is  passed,  the  problem  is  to  remove  the 
complications  in  such  a  way  that  the  interest 
shall  not  flag.  It  will  be  readily  seen  that 
the  first  process  is  much  more  susceptible  of 
expansion  than  the  latter.  For  this  reason, 
the  fall  should  be  much  shorter  than  the 
growth ;  and,  in  consequence,  the  climax 
should  be  placed  somewhere  between  the 
middle  and  the  end  of  the  play.  In  five-act 
plays,  it  commonly  falls  near  the  close  of  the 
third  act,  —  sometimes  in  the  fourth  act.  In 
The  Lady  of  Lyons  the  climax  comes  in  Act 
III,,  Sc.  2,  with  the  disillusionment  of  Paul- 
ine. In  Othello  the  climax  is  reached  in  Act 
IV.,  Sc.  1,  where  Othello  becomes  convinced 
of  his  wife's  infidelity.  The  climax  may  be 
said  to  reach  its  culmination  in  the  blow  which 
Othello  deals  Desdemona :  — 

Oth.     Fire  and  brimstone ! 

Bes.  My  lord  ? 

Oth.  Are  you  wise  ? 

Des.    What  1     Is  he  angry  ? 

Lod.  Maybe  the  letter  moved  him ; 

For,  as  I  think,  they  do  command  him  home, 
Deputing  Cassio  in  his  government. 

Des.    By  my  troth,  I  am  glad  on  't. 

Oth.  Indeed ! 

Bes.  My  lord  ? 

Oth.     I  am  glad  to  see  you  mad. 

Des.  How,  sweet  Othello  ? 

Oth.    Devil !     [Striking  her.] 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  121 

6.  Multiple  Climaxes.  —  The  rage  for 
strong  situations,  so  prevalent  at  the  present 
day,  has  led  to  the  construction  of  plays  in 
which  there  are  two  or  more  grand  climaxes 
of  apparently  equal  importance.  Indeed,  in 
not  a  few  of  our  most  successful  plays,  the 
growth  and  fall  take  up  but  a  brief  portion  at 
the  beginning  and  end ;  all  the  remainder  con- 
sisting of  a  series  of  grand  climaxes  following 
one  another  as  rapidly  as  the  writer  can  man- 
age to  bring  them  about.  Plays  thus  con- 
structed must  be  regarded  as  inartistic,  though 
here,  as  every^vhere,  success  must  inspire  a 
certain  degree  of  respect.  It  is  this  class  of 
plays  that  appeals  most  strongly  to  the  un- 
cultured. The  "  gallery  "  does  not  know  very 
much  about  art,  but  it  can  tell  a  strong  situ- 
ation as  unerringly  as  can  the  parquet.  A 
good  play,  from  the  standpoint  of  the  gallery, 
is  one  made  up  of  a  succession  of  knock-down 
effects ;  and  so  long  as  the  gallery  exists  as 
a  paying  institution,  so  long  will  such  plays 
be  in  demand. 

7.  Management  of  Multiple  Climaxes.  — 
Almost  the  only  rule  that  can  be  given  for 
the  management  of  several  climaxes  is,  to 
make  the  last  one  invariably  the  strongest. 

Practically,  the  terms  "  situation  "  and  "  cli- 
max "  are  used  as  synonymous.  Many  pro- 
fessional play -readers  speak  of  a  play  as  hav- 
ing numerous  strong  situations,  when,  in  fact, 
the  so-called  situations  are  a  series  of  clL- 
maxes. 


122 


THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITINQ. 


When  there  are  but  two  climaxes,  the  out* 
line  should  be  like  the  first  rather  than  the 
second  of  the  following  diagrams :  — 


The  following  form  should    be  carefully 
avoided,  as  it  constitutes  an  anii-climax ;  ^  — • 


Where  there  are  a  number  of  climaxes,  any 
of  the  following  outlines  may  be  followed,  the 
third  being  preferable,  — 


b  xy  z  c 


"bxy  z 


i'J 


a  a 


d  a 


The  meaning  of  the  letters  in  the  above 
diagrams  is  as  follows :  — 
a  Beginning  of  play. 
h  c  X  y  z  Climaxes. 
d  Close. 

^  A  climax  less  important  than  the  preceding  one,  and 
consequently  less  striking. 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  123 

8.  Illustration.  —  A  good  example  of  well- 
managed  double  climax  may  be  found  in  Bul- 
wer's  Richelieu.  In  Act  III.,  Sc.  2,  the  con- 
spiracy reaches  its  height.  It  is  the  darkest 
hour  for  Richelieu.  Francois  has  lost  the 
packet.  The  Cardinal  has  fled  to  Ruelle, 
whither  is  coming  Huguet,  with  his  band  of 
traitors.  To  crown  all,  De  Mauprat  enters 
the  Cardinal's  chamber  to  slay  him.  The  cli- 
max is  reached  when  the  former,  lifting  his 
visor,  exclaims,  "  Expect  no  mercy  !  Be- 
hold De  Mauprat ! "  But  the  resources  of  the 
dramatist  are  not  yet  exhausted.  Richelieu 
escapes  the  conspirators  only  to  discover  that 
the  king  has  turned  against  him,  and  that  his 
power  is  apparently  gone  forever.  Thus  a 
second  climax  of  greater  force  is  brought 
about  in  Act  IV.,  Sc.  2,  where  Bai'adas  cornea 
to  take  Julie  to  the  king. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION  OF  A  PLAY   (cOTlf 

tinned). 
The  Fall. 

1.  Object  of  the  Fall.  —  The  playwright 
may  now  be  conceived  to  have  brought  the 
growth  of  interest  and  suspense  to  its  highest 
point.  But  he  may  not  stop  here.  The  story, 
it  will  be  remembered,  must  be  complete.  It 
must  be  carried  to  a  point  where  there  is 
nothing  more  to  tell.  He  cannot,  therefore, 
pause  with  his  characters  hanging,  as  it  were, 
in  mid-air.  He  must  conduct  the  story  to 
some  fitting  conclusion,  after  which  the  audi- 
ence will  depart  in  peace,  —  calm,  passion- 
spent,  and  satisfied. 

2.  Management  of  the  Fall.  —  The  art  of 
the  fall,  or  untying  of  the  knot,  consists  in 
removing  the  various  suspense-creating  com- 
plications in  such  a  way  as  not  to  destroy  the 
interest.  The  methods  of  accomplishing  this 
differ  somewhat  as  the  ending  is  to  be  a 
happy  or  an  unhappy  one. 

3.  The  Pall  in  Comedy.  —  In  comedies 
(including,  for  the  moment,  under  the  term 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  125 

all  plays  ending  happily),  the  problem  of  the 
growth  is  to  get  the  hero  and  heroine  into 
difficulties.  Hence  the  method  of  the  fall 
will  be  to  dissipate  the  clouds,  either  by  show- 
ing that  the  difficulties  are  mere  figments  of 
the  imagination,  or  by  so  ordering  the  inci- 
dents that  the  obstacles  will  be  destroyed. 
It  must  be  kept  in  mind,  however,  that,  if  the 
suspense  is  entirely  removed  at  any  one  point, 
the  audience  will  at  once  lose  interest  in  the 
action.  It  is  the  business  of  the  dramatist  to 
see  that  not  all  the  causes  of  suspense  are  re- 
moved at  once  ;  and  that,  as  often  as  one  diffi- 
culty is  taken  away,  the  presence  of  others  is 
at  once  suggested.  There  are  four  ways  of 
doing  this :  — 

(1.)  By  interposing  some  new  and  unex- 
pected obstacle. 

(2.)  By  emphasizing  some  obstacle  already 
known  to  exist. 

(3.)  By  bringing  to  light  an  obstacle  which 
is  at  once  seen  to  have  existed  all  the  time. 

(4.)  By  causing  a  new  obstacle  to  result 
from  the  very  removal  of  others. 

4.  Interposition  of  New  Obstacles.  — 
This  method  is  justifiable  only  when  the  new 
difficulty  is  in  some  way  the  result  of  pre- 
vious action.  Two  men,  for  example,  have 
become  involved  in  a  series  of  difficulties, 
ending  in  their  imprisonment.  They  manage 
to  overpower  the  jailor,  and  make  their  way 
through  the  corridors  to  a  door  which  they 


126  THE  ART  OF   PLAYWRITING. 

believe  will  let  them  into  the  street.  The 
suspense  seems  about  to  be  removed.  They 
open  the  door,  and  find  themselves  in  the 
guard-room  of  the  prison.  A  new  element  of 
suspense  now  takes  the  place  of  the  old  one. 
Obviously,  however,  unless  there  is  some  good 
reason  for  the  fugitives  coming  to  this  par- 
ticular door,  the  device  is  mere  clap-trap.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  audience  recognizes,  as 
soon  as  the  door  is  opened,  that  flight  must 
inevitably  have  led  to  this  one  door,  the  inci- 
dent becomes  both  justifiable  and  artistically 
effective. 

In  light  comedy,  when  surprise  is  the  only 
end  in  view,  new  and  ingenious  obstacles  are 
introduced  in  profusion,  with  little  regard  to 
artistic  construction.  Even  these,  however, 
may  be  in  a  measure  prepared  for.  In  the 
following  scene  from  Gilbert's  Engaged,  the 
entrance  of  Cheviot  Hill  is  apparently  the 
end  of  the  suspense ;  but  a  new  obstacle  is  in- 
terposed by  Cheviot's  announcement  that  the 
McQuibbigaskie  has  gone  abroad.  The  fact, 
however,  that  some  reply  was  expected,  serves 
as  preparation  for  the  unexpected  announce- 
ment :  — 

Minnie.  [Nervously.^  Oh,  Belinda,  the  terrible  mo- 
ment is  at  hand.     \^Sits  on  sofa,  L.] 

Miss  Treherne.  Minnie,  if  dear  Cheviot  should  prove 
to  be  ray  husband,  swear  to  me  that  that  will  not  prevent 
your  coming  to  stop  with  us  —  with  dear  Cheviot  and  me 
—  whenever  you  can. 

Minnie.    Indeed  I  will.    And  if  it  should  turn  out 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  127 

that  dear  Cheviot  is  at  liberty  to  marry  me,  promise  me 
that  that  will  not  prevent  your  looking-  on  our  house  —  on 
dear  Cheviot's  and  mine  —  as  your  house. 

Miss  Treherne.  I  swear  it.  We  will  be  like  dear,  dear 
sisters. 

[Enter  Cheviot,  as/rom  journey,  D.  F.  B.,  with  bag  and 
rug.] 

Miss  Treherne,  Cheviot,  tell  me  at  once ;  are  you  my 
own  husband  ? 

Minnie.  Cheviot,  speak  ;  is  poor,  little,  simple  Minnie 
to  be  your  bride  ? 

Cheviot.  [Sits  on  chair,  R.]  Minnie,  the  hope  of  my 
heart,  my  pet  fruit  tree  !  Belinda,  my  Past,  my  Present, 
and  my  To  Come !     I  have  sorry  news,  sorry  news ! 

Miss  Treherne.  [Aside.]  Sorry  news  I  Then  I  am  not 
his  wife. 

Minnie.     [Aside.]     Sorry  news !     Then  she  is  his  wife. 

Cheviot.  My  dear  girls,  my  dear  girls,  my  journey  has 
been  fruitless ;  I  have  no  information. 

Miss  T.  and  Min.     No  information  ! 

Cheviot.   None.   The  McQuibbigaskie  has  gone  abroad  I 

5.  Emphasizing  Known  Obstacles.  — 
This  is  not  so  effective  as  the  last  method, 
for  the  reason  that  the  element  of  surprise, 
unless  the  audience  is  inclined  to  be  forgetful, 
may  be  wholly  lacking.  The  usual  means  of 
introducing  such  obstacles  is  by  some  such 
phraseology  as  "  one  difficulty  is  surmounted, 
now  for  the  rest ! "  Thus,  in  the  third  act 
of  Robertson's  Home,  after  Col.  White  has 
ordered  Mrs.  Pinchbeck  out  of  the  house,  an- 
other obstacle  is  introduced  in  the  person  of 
her  brother,  Mountraffe  :  — 

ilfrs.  Pinchbeck.     Do  you  wish  to  insult  me  ? 

Col.  White.     No  !    Only  to  induce  you  to  pack  ap^ 


128  THE  ART    OF  PLAYWBITINQ. 

Mrs.  P.     Can't  I  insult  you  ? 

Col.     No. 

Mrs.  P.     Why  not  ? 

Col.  Because,  you're  a  -woman;  and  I  acknowledge 
the  superiority  of  your  sex  over  yourself. 

Enter  Mountrujfe,  D.  U.  E.  L. 

Mountraffe.     Pamela!     \^Down  C.^ 

Col.  [Seeing  him,  aside]  Oh,  this  is  a  very  difFerent 
affair.  I  need  n't  keep  my  temper  now.  \_After  apause.^ 
I  won't. 

6.  Necessary  Obstacles.  —  Obstacles  of 
this  character  are  those  which  naturally  result 
from  the  characteristics  of  the  dramatis  per- 
sonce.  As  the  progress  of  the  drama  moves 
towards  reconciliation  of  interests,  new  com- 
binations and  clashes  inevitably  result.  An 
illustration  may  be  taken  from  Act  V.,  Sc.  1, 
of  Boucicault's  London  Assurance.  Lady 
Spanker  lays  a  scheme  to  punish  Sir  Har- 
court  by  getting  him  involved  in  a  duel.  The 
plan  seems  likely  to  succeed,  when  an  ele- 
ment of  Sir  Harcourt's  character  —  courage  — 
comes  in,  to  give  a  new  turn  to  the  course  of 
events : — 

Re-enter  Lady  Gay,  L. 

Lady  Gay.     Oh  !  Max,  Max ! 

Max.     Why,  what 's  amiss  with  you  ? 

Lady  Gay.     I  'm  a  wicked  woman  I 

Max.    What  have  you  done  ? 

Lady  Gay.  Everything !  Oh,  I  thought  Sir  Harcourt 
was  a  coward ;  but  now,  I  find  a  man  may  be  a  coxcomb 
without  being  a  poltroon.  Just  to  show  my  husband  how 
inconvenient  it  is  to  hold  the  ribands  sometimes,  I  made 
him  send  a  challenge  to  the  old  fellow ;  and  he,  to  my 
surprise,  accepted  it,  and  is  going  to  blow  my  Dolly's 
liraJna  out  in  the  billiard-roonu 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  129 

Max.     The  devil ! 

Lady  Gay.  Just  when  I  imagined  I  had  got  my  whip- 
hand  of  him  again,  out  comes  my  linch-pin,  and  over  I 
go.     Oh ! 

Max.  I  will  soon  put  a  stop  to  that.  A  duel  under 
my  roof  I  Murder  in  Oak  Hall !  I  '11  shoot  them  both! 
Exit,  L. 

Grace.    Are  you  really  in  earnest  ? 

Lady  Gay.  Do  you  think  it  looks  like  a  joke  ?  Oh, 
DoUy,  if  you  allow  yourself  to  be  shot,  I  will  never  for- 
gave you ;  uever !  Oh,  he  is  a  great  fool,  Grace  ;  but,  I 
can't  tell  why,  I  would  sooner  lose  my  bridle-hand  than 
he  should  be  hurt  on  my  account. 

7.  Obstacles  Resulting  from  the  Re- 
moval of  Others.  —  This  method,  which  re- 
quires some  ingenuity,  is  always  highly  effec- 
tive, especially  in  light  comedy.  By  its 
proper  use,  the  fall  may  be  prolonged  indefi- 
nitely without  decreasing  the  interest.  In 
the  following  scene  from  Bronson  Howard's 
Saratoga,  notice  how  Sackett's  conversation 
with  Mrs.  Alston,  just  when  it  seems  to  have 
acoomplished  its  end  in  removing  all  obsta- 
cles to  an  understanding  between  the  latter 
and  Benedict,  suddenly  leads  to  the  interpo- 
sition of  a  more  serious  obstacle  :  — 

Mrs.  Alston.     Mr.  Sackett,  where 's  Mr.  Benedict  ? 

Sackett.  [Assuming  a  very  serious  air.]  Alas,  my  dear 
Olivia,  you  are  too  late  ! 

Mrs.  Alston.     Too  late  !     Oh,  heaven !  do  not  say  thati 

Sackett.  Jack  was  my  friend,  my  schoolmate,  the  com- 
panion of  my  early  years. 

Mrs.  Alston.     Surely  you  have  not  — 

Sackett.  I  urged  him  to  reflect  —  to  consider  our  tf 
lotions — 


130  THE  ART  OF   PLATWRITING. 

Mrs.  Alston.     You  have  not  fought  already  ? 

Sackett.  Tears  came  into  his  eyes,  he  grasped  me  by 
the  hand  — 

Mrs.  Alston.     Oh,  this  suspense  is  terrible ! 

Sackett.  "  Robert,"  said  he,  "  we  are  old  friends ; 
but  you  have  insulted  the  woman  whom  I  love  better 
than  ten  thousand  lives  "  —  I  think  it  was  ten  thousand 
lives,  I  forget  the  exact  number — "the  woman  I  love 
better  than  ten  thousand  lives  ;  she  insists  upon  the  satis- 
faction of  a  gentleman  "  —  I  mean,  the  satisfaction  of  a 
woman  —  "  and  I  shall  protect  her  honor  at  the  expense 
of  friendship,  life,  everything  that  is  dear  to  me."  As 
we  raised  our  pistols  — 

Mrs.  Alston.     Oh,  heaven !  as  you  raised  your  pistols  — 

Sackett.  As  we  raised  our  pistols,  I  said  to  him, 
"Benedict,  my  dear  boy,  it  isn't  too  late  yet;"  but  it 
was  too  late ;  his  bullet  whizzed  past  my  ear,  and  landed 
in  the  wall  beyond. 

Mrs.  Alston.     And  your  bullet  ? 

Sackett.  My  bullet  missed  my  friend's  heart,  by  less 
than  eighteen  inches.  He  fell ;  a  surgeon  was  summoned  ; 
and  he  now  lies  in  the  next  room,  in  a  delirious  condi- 
tion ;  a  victim  of  his  love  for  you,  madam,  and  his  devo- 
tion to  the  dictates  of  manly  honor.  ^ 

Mrs.  Alston.     He  lies  in  the  next  room  ? 

Sackett.  He  lies  in  the  next  room,  [aside^  and  /  lie  in 
this  room. 

Mrs.  Alston.     I  will  fly  to  him  at  once.     I  will  — 

[Goes  to  door,  R.  C.  Sackett  hurries,  and  places  himself 
between  her  and  door.] 

Sackett.  Not  for  the  world,  madam,  not  for  the  world ; 
the  surgeon  is  with  him  this  very  moment. 

Mrs.  Alston.  Oh,  he  would  rather  have  me  by  his  side 
than  a  thousand  surgeons. 

Sackett.  I  dare  say  he  would,  Mra.  Alston ;  but  the 
surgeon  has  given  strict  orders  that  she  —  I  would  say  that  ^ 

he  — must  be  entirely  alone  Avith  Mr.  Benedict. 

Mrs.  Alston.  Mr.  Sackett,  stand  back ;  Mr.  Benedict 
is  suffering  on  my  account.     I  insist  on  flying  to  his  side. 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  131 

{She pushes  him  aside;  flies  to  door;  opens  it,  and  entera, 
22.  C  Sackett  staggers  to  chair  B.  of  table,  and  sinks  into 
it.] 

Sackett.     Oh,  Lord!  oh,  Lord!  now  for  an  explosion! 

[Re-enter  Mrs.  Alston,  followed  by  Benedict,  trying  ti 
explain ;  they  walk  E.  and  L.  and  up  and  down.] 

Benedict.     My  dear  Olivia  !  — 

Mrs.  Alston.  Silence,  sir  ;  not  a  word  from  you !  Qo 
back  to  your  surgeon,  sir ! 

Benedict.     [R]     "Surgeon!" 

Mrs.  Alston.  [L.,  to  Sackett,  who  turns  his  back,  stride 
ing  his  chair,  as  she  turns  to  him.]  So  this  is  your  "  de- 
lirium," sir,  — a  "  victim  of  his  love  for  me,  and  his  devo- 
tion to  the  dictates  of  manly  honor  ' '  —  oh,  I  could  tear 
his  eyes  out,  and  those  of  his  "  surgeon  "  too. 

8.  The  Fall  in  Tragedy.  —  In  comedy, 
the  movement  from  the  climax  onward  is  to- 
ward a  happy  ending.  The  audience  feels 
that  a  reconciliation  is  approaching,  and  hails 
with  delight  the  removal  of  the  various  obsta- 
cles which  stand  in  the  way.  In  tragedy,  the 
situation  is  almost  the  reverse.  The  audience 
is,  from  the  beginning  of  the  fall,  made  to  an- 
ticipate some  dreadful  disaster.  The  conflict 
is  seen  to  be  irreconcilable,  death  inevitable. 
The  problem  of  the  playwright  in  this  case  is, 
as  before,  to  produce  suspense,  but  under  dif- 
ferent conditions.  He  knows,  if  he  is  a  stu- 
dent of  human  nature,  that  there  is  a  horrible 
fascination  in  an  impending  calamity,  and 
that,  if  vividly  suggested  and  rapidly  brought 
on,  it  will  suffice  to  hold  the  attention  of  his 
audience.  Furthermore,  he  knows,  or  should 
know,  that  this  sense  of  fascination  may  be 


132  THE  ART  OF  PLAY  WRITING. 

both  relieved  and  heightened  by  the  effect  of 
contrast.  A  sudden  gleam  of  hope  makes  the 
despair  that  follows  a  hundred  times  mor# 
pathetic. 

9.  Happy  Ending  Suggested.  —  The 
method,  therefore,  of  the  tragic  dramatist  for 
prolonging  the  suspense  after  the  climax  has 
been  passed,  is  to  suggest  possible  means  of 
escape  from  the  impending  fate.  Romeo 
may  rescue  Juliet  from  the  tomb  and  bear  her 
away  to  Mantua,  Hamlet  may  escape  the 
poisoned  foil  and  cup,  Macbeth  has  yet  one 
chance  of  life  —  he  cannot  be  slain  by  one  of 
woman  born.  It  is  unnecessary  to  go  into  de- 
tails upon  this  point.  Here,  as  everywhere, 
it  is  best  that  the  suggestions  of  possible 
escape  should  not  be  arbitrary,  but  such  as 
grow  naturally  out  of  the  circumstances  of 
the  action.  It  is  worth  noting  that,  as  the 
action  draws  near  the  catastrophe,  a  very 
slight  hint  of  reprieve  will  send  a  wave  of 
hope  through  an  attentive  audience.  The 
spectator  will  clutch  at  it  as  the  drowning 
man  is  said  to  clutch  at  straws.  Those  who 
have  heard  Barrett  in  the  following  scene 
from  Boker's  Francesca  da  Rimini,  will  per- 
haps recall  the  flashes  of  hope  occasioned  by 
Lanciotto's  questions.  Although  it  was  per- 
fectly obvious  that  no  happy  ending  was  pos- 
sible for  the  two  lovers,  yet  the  sympathetic 
heart  of  the  spectator  persisted  in  hoping 
against  hope  that  Paolo  might  make  his  peace 
with  Lanciotto :  — 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  133 

Lan.  Silence,  both  of  yon  I 

Its  guilt  so  talkative  in  its  defence  ? 
Then,  let  me  make  you  judge  and  advocate 
In  your  own  cause.    You  are  not  guilty  ? 

Paolo.  Yes. 

Lan.     Deny  it  —  but  a  word  —  say,  No.     Lie,  lie  1 
And  I  '11  believe. 

Paolo.  I  dare  not. 

Lan.  Lady,  you  ? 

Fran.     If  I  might  speak  for  him  — 

Lan.  It  cannot  be ; 

Speak  for  yourself.     Do  you  deny  your  guilt  ? 

Fran.     No  ;  I  assert  it ;  but  — 

Lan.  lu  heaven's  name,  hold ! 

Will  neither  of  you  answer  No  to  me  ? 
A  nod,  a  hint,  a  sign,  for  your  escape. 
Bethink  you,  life  is  centred  in  this  thing. 
Speak !     I  ■will  credit  either.     No  reply  ? 
What  does  your  crime  deserve  ? 

Paolo.  Death. 

Fran.  Death  to  both 

Lan.     Well  said !     Yoa  speak  the  law  of  Italy ; 
And  by  the  dagger  you  designed  for  me, 
In  Pepe's  hand,  —  your  bravo  ? 

Paolo.  It  is  false ! 

If  you  received  my  dagger  from  his  hand 
He  stole  it. 

Lan.     There,  sweet  heaven,  I  knew  ; 
And  now  you  will  deny  the  rest  ?     You  see,  my  friends, 
How  easy  of  belief  I  have  become !  — 
How  easy  't  were  to  cheat  me ! 

Paolo.  No ;  enough  1 

I  will  not  load  my  groaning  spirit  more  ; 
A  lie  would  crush  it. 

Lan.  Brother,  once  you  gave 

Life  to  this  wretched  piece  of  workmanship. 
When  my  own  hand  resolved  its  overthrow. 
Revoke  the  gift.     [Offers  to  stab  himself.] 

Paolo.     [Preventing  him.]    Hold,  homicide  1 


134  THE  ART  OF  PL  AY  WRITING. 

Lan.  But,  think, 

You  and  Francesca  may  live  happily, 
After  my  death,  as  only  lovers  can. 

10.  Mediated  Tragedy.^  —  In  plays  where 
the  tragic  close  is  avoided,  and  the  action 
which  seemed  tending  towards  a  calamity  is 
brought  around  to  a  happy  ending,  the  two 
methods  just  described  are  to  be  found  in 
combination.  While  stress  is  being  laid  upon 
the  supremacy  of  fate,  suggestions  of  possible 
escape  are  introduced ;  when  the  prospect  of 
a  happy  termination  becomes  apparent,  sus- 
pense is  kept  up  by  the  introduction  of  fresh 
obstacles. 

1  See  Chapter  viii. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THEORETICAL   CONSTRUCTION   OP  A  PLAT  (con- 

tinued). 
The  Close,  or  Catastrophe. 

1.  Kinds  of  Close.  —  The  close  of  the 
play,  with,  playwrights  who  have  no  con- 
scientious scruples  about  their  art,  is  a  very 
simple  matter.  Kill  the  villain  and  pair  the 
virtuous,  is  rule  enough  for  them  ;  and  as  soon 
as  the  play  has  reached  its  time  limit,  this  is 
done,  and  the  performance  is  over.  Careful 
construction,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  de- 
mands a  closer  relation  of  fitness  between  the 
end  of  the  play  and  the  play  itself.  Hence, 
we  find  three  different  kinds  of  close,  corre- 
sponding to  the  three  main  classes  of  plays  :  — 

(1.)  The  catastrophe  of  tragedy. 

(2.)  The  close  of  comedy. 

(3.)  The  close  of  mediated  drama. 

2.  The  Tragic  Catastrophe.  —  The  close 
of  tragedy  is  always  a  catastrophe ;  that  is, 
the  death  of  one  or  more  of  the  characters. 

The  most  important  rule  regarding  it  is, 
that  it  must  be  the  direct  outcome  of  the 
whole  action  of  the  play,  and,  therefore,  be 
seen  to  be  necessary  and  inevitable.    An  arbi- 


136  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITING. 

trary,  needless  death  is  in  the  highest  degree 
inartistic. 

3.  Death  the  Result  of  Transgression.  — 
In  order  to  satisfy  our  sense  of  justice  and 
equity,  a  tragic  death  must  be  the  result  of 
some  violation  of  law,  social  or  divine.  The 
transgression  may  be  direct  and  conscious,  as 
in  the  case  of  Macbeth.  The  catastrophe  is 
then  said  to  be  a  case  of  "  poetic  justice."  Or, 
the  character  who  commits  the  fault  may  do 
so  unwittingly,  and  even  believe  that  he  is 
doing  a  bounden  duty,  as  in  the  case  of  Lear 
when  he  casts  off  Cordelia.  In  many  cases, 
the  tragic  result  is  due  to  a  defect  of  char- 
acter, as,  e.  g.,  the  irresolution  of  Hamlet. 
The  important  point  in  every  case  is,  that  the 
death  be  made  to  result  from  some  action  or 
trait  intimately  connected  with  the  character 
which  renders  a  happy  ending  out  of  the 
question. 

4.  Management  of  the  Tragic  Catas- 
trophe. As  tragedies  pure  and  simple  are  in 
no  great  demand  at  the  present  day,  detailed 
instructions  on  this  point  would  perhaps  be 
a  waste  of  space  ;  but  one  or  two  suggestions 
may  be  given.  The  playwright  should  re- 
member that  it  is  not  the  mere  termination 
of  animal  life  which  is  effective  on  the  stage, 
but  the  associations  that  go  with  it.  The 
aim,  therefore,  should  be  not  merely  to  kill 
the  character,  but  to  make  of  his  death  a  pa- 
thetic situation.     This  may  be  done  by  sug- 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  137 

gesting  at  the  moment  of  death  the  happiness 
that  might  have  been,  or  emphasizing  some 
noble  trait  of  character  that  makes  regret  for 
the  death  more  poignant.  Compare,  for  ex- 
ample, the  speeches  of  Paolo,  in  the  quotation 
made  in  the  preceding  chapter  from  Francesca 
da  Rimini,  the  last  utterances  of  Othello,  and 
the  dying  words  of  Marguerite,  in  Dumas's  La 
Dame  aux  Camelias  (Camille). 

Few  catastrophes  are  better  managed  than 
the  following  from  Frou-Frou  (adapted  by 
Augustin  Daly),  with  its  characteristic  touch 
of  pathos  in  the  last  exclamation  of  Gil- 
berte : — 

Sartorys.  [Taking  her  hand,  and  kneeling.]  Oh,  Qil- 
berte,  it  is  not  you  who  need  forgiveness  ;  it  is  I. 

Gilberte.  Forgive  you  for  —  for  what  ?  For  having 
loved  me  too  well  ?  Oh,  that  has  been  my  misf  ortmie ; 
all  have  loved  me  too  well. 

Louise.     [Sobbing.]     Gilberte ! 

Gilberte.  And  that  is  why  I  die  — so  happy.  [Falling 
back.]    Oh! 

All.     [Believing  her  dead.]     Gilberte  ! 

Gilberte.  [Supported  by  Sartory.<i,  who  places  his  arm 
tenderly  about  her  as  she  raises  her  head.]  Louise,  where 
are  you?  Louise!  [Louise places  a  hand  in  Gilberte's, 
without  lifting  her  head.]  Let  me  tell  you  —  when  I  am 
dead  —  deck  me  out  as  beautifully  as  in  the  by-gone 
happy  days  —  not  in  this  black  robe.  Among  my  ball 
dresses,  you  will  find  a  white  one,  you  know  ;  the  skirt  is 
covered  with  little  roses ;  that  is  the  one  I  want ;  don't 
forget,  and  you  will  see  how  handsome  I  shall  be. 

Sartorys.     Oh,  Gilberte  !   darling ! 

Gilberte.  [Sadly  smiling;  her  ei/es  upturned  to  his.] 
You  see  —  still  the  same  —  Frou-Frou  —  [Growing  in- 
tensible.]     Poor  Frou-Frou  I 


138  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITING. 

6.  The  Close  in  Comedy.  —  The  ordinary- 
close  in  comedy  is  the  announcement  of  a 
prospective  wedding,  or  the  reconciliation  of 
lovers.  It  should  come  at  once  upon  the  re- 
moval of  the  last  obstacle.  A  common  device 
is  to  reserve  some  humorous  matter,  or  effec- 
tive touch  of  nature,  until  the  very  end,  and 
to  bring  down  the  curtain  on  that.  Thus,  in 
All  the  Rage,  two  of  the  characters,  principal 
and  second  in  a  duel,  go  off  the  stage  on  some 
mysterious  errand.  The  duel  is  averted,  and 
the  object  of  that  errand  seems  likely  to  re- 
main a  mystery  forever,  when  the  duelist 
thoughtlessly  unbuttons  his  coat,  and  out 
tumble  half  a  dozen  tin  plates,  which  were  to 
serve  as  defensive  armor  against  his  antag- 
onist. The  audience  shouts  with  laughter, 
and  down  comes  the  curtain. 

This  device  is  more  artistic,  if  it  is  pre- 
pared for  from  the  beginning  of  the  play. 
In  Daly's  Seven-Tiventy-Eight,  for  example, 
a  rich  aristocrat  makes  inquiries  regarding 
the  original  of  a  picture  representing  a  young 
lady  with  a  dog.  The  hopes  of  the  family  for 
an  aristocratic  connection  are  roused  to  a  high 
pitch.  At  the  close,  it  is  discovered  that  the 
stranger's  curiosity  was  directed  toward  the 
dog,  not  toward  the  young  lady. 

A  good  illustration  of  comic  material  left 
until  the  close  may  be  taken  from  Wigan's 
version  of  Sardou's  Nos  Intimes  (Friends  or 
Foes). 

Captain.    Sure,  he  called  you  Robert. 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  139 

Union.     Yes,  that 's  my  name. 

Captain.  Then,  you  're  not  Jack  Union,  that  we  used 
to  call  Union  Jack  —  supercargo  in  the  Shamrock  — 
twenty-three  years  ago,  at  Macao  ? 

Union.    Not  I. 

Captain.     Are  you  quite  sure  ? 

Union.     Certain. 

Captain.  No  ?  Then,  holy  Moses,  what  am  I  doii^ 
here  ? 

Union.  That 's  a  question  I  have  been  some  time  puz- 
zled to  answer. 

Captain.  [Angrily.]  Why,  confound  it  all,  I  don't 
know  you  from  Adam. 

Union      Nor  I  you,  if  you  come  to  that. 

Captain.  Well,  but  thunder  and  turf !  I  've  been  here 
these  two  days,  eating,  drinking,  sleeping,  wasting  my 
time,  and  making  myself  at  home,  as  I  should  at  a 
friend's.     Sure,  it 's  devilish  unpleasant. 

Union.     It  is,  indeed. 

Captain.  Well,  then,  tare  and  ages !  why  did  n't  you 
say  —  [Shaking  hands]  However,  it  can't  be  helped, 
after  all.  It  was  n't  your  fault ;  you  are  not  a  bad  fel- 
low, and  I  don't  bear  you  any  grudge. 

6.  Close  with  ''Gag."  — In  the  lighter 
forms  of  comedies,  it  is  not  unusual  to  close 
with  the  most  effective  "  gag  "  of  the  piece. 
This  generally  leaves  the  spectators  in  a  good 
humor,  and  gives  them  a  saying  that  they  are 
pretty  sure  to  repeat  to  their  neighbors  as  the 
curtain  goes  down.  The  following  instance, 
from  the  close  of  Howard's  Saratoga,  will 
illustrate  this  method  :  — 

Sackett.  But  here 's  a  little  woman,  who  will  be  more 
than  a  mother  to  me  —  more  than  a  sister  —  brother  — 
cousin  —  uncle  —  aunt  —  more  than  a  mother-in-law  — 
more  than  all  the  world  beside  —  my  wife.     [To  audio 


140  THE  ART  OF  PLAT  WRITING. 

ence.]  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  —  when  I  was  a  very  little 
boy  — 

JEjfie.  There,  never  mind  when  you  were  a  very  little 
boy. 

Sackett.  Young  gentlemen,  whenever  you  find  a  lady 
in  your  arms,  or  your  heart  — 

£jfie.  Allow  her  to  ''  remain  in  the  place  in  which  she 
originally  fell, ' '     [  Curtain.  ] 

Not  infrequently,  the  last  words  are  made 
to  include  the  title  of  the  play,  as  in  the  fol- 
lowing close  to  Albery's  Two  Moses  :  — 

Grant.  Mr.  Jenkins,  that  union  has  been  the  dream  of 
my  life. 

Lotty.    You  won't  part  us ! 

Caleb.     No,  you  shall  bloom  together,  aa  on  one  tree. 

Wjjatt.     [Between  them.] 
One,  like  the  rose,  when  Jime  and  July  kiss. 
One,  like  the  leaf-housed  bud  young  May  discloses, 
Sweetly  unlike,  and  yet  alike  in  this  —  They  are,  "  Two 
Roses." 

7.  Address  to  Audience.  —  The  selection 
from  Saratoga  will  serve  to  illustrate  another 
custom  much  in  vogue,  that  of  turning  to  ad- 
dress the  audience  at  the  very  close.  This  is 
an  abbreviated  survival  of  the  old  epilogue. 
It  cannot  be  recommended  except  in  the  case 
of  the  lightest  comedies.  It  should,  in  any 
event,  be  very  short,  as  the  audience  gener- 
ally sniffs  from  afar  devices  of  this  sort,  and 
begins  putting  on  its  overcoat  as  soon  as  the 
actors  approach  the  footlights. 

It  may  be  said  in  general  that,  until  Amer- 
ican audiences  are  cultivated  to  the  point 
where  they  will  sit  quietly  until  the  curtain 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  141 

drops,  playwrights  will  do  well  to  end  their 
dramas  with  a  surprise  and  bring  the  curtain 
down  at  unexpected  points.  A  fine  speech  at 
the  close  is  generally  labor  wasted. 

8.  Close  in  Mediated  Drama.^  —  In  se- 
rious plays  which  might  involve  a  tragic  end- 
ing, but  which  actually  end  happily  for  the 
hero  and  heroine,  the  close  is  usually  of  a 
"mixed"  character.  Some  of  the  objection- 
able characters  are  put  out  of  the  way ;  most 
of  the  well-meaning  characters  attain  the  end 
for  which  they  are  striving.  A  death  on  the 
stage  at  or  near  the  close  is  not  common  in 
plays  of  this  class.  In  most  cases,  the  char- 
acter to  be  removed  is  disposed  of  earlier  in 
the  play,  or  his  death  is  announced  at  the 
close,  as  the  removal  of  a  final  obstacle. 
Death  is  not,  of  course,  the  only  means  by 
which  characters  can  be  put  out  of  the  way. 
They  may  be  sent  to  prison  or  to  Siberia,  or 
simply  made  to  vanish  when  they  find  their 
hopes  shattered,  as,  e.  g.,  De  Lesparre  in 
Feuillet's  Tentation  (Led  Astray). 

Where  the  play  is  of  a  less  serious  char- 
acter, the  villain  may  repent  and  be  restored 
to  good  society,  as  in  the  case  with  Ernest 
Vane,  in  Reade  and  Taylor's  Masks  and  Faces. 

9.  General    Remarks   on   the   Close.  — 
(1.)  In   all   plays,  the   actual   fall   of  the 

curtain  should  be  preceded  by  a  situation  of 

some  strength,  —  a  situation,  that  is,  which 

*  See  Chapter  vii.  18. 


142  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

will  leave  an  impression  on  the  mind  of  the 
audience;  but  it  need  not  be  a  situation  of 
unusual  strength,  nor  should  it  be  one  of 
great  complexity.  The  place  for  strength  and 
complexity  is  at  the  grand  climax,  where  all 
the  lines  of  action  are  gathered  together  in  a 
knot.  The  situation  at  the  close  can  only  be 
the  unwinding  of  the  last  strand. 

(2.)  The  position  of  the  characters  at  the 
close  forms  a  tableau,  or  stage  picture,  and 
should  be  indicated  in  the  manuscript.  The 
following  instances  are  taken,  —  the  first 
from  Robertson's  Caste,  the  second  from  Gil- 
bert's Engaged,  the  third  from  Broughton's 
Withered  Leaves  : 

1st.  The  Marquise.  [Bending  over  the  cradle,  at  end, 
J?.]  My  grandson!  [Eccles  falls  off  the  chair,  in  the  last 
stage  of  drunkenness,  bottle  in  hand.  Hawtree,  leaning  on 
mantelpiece,  by  the  other  side  of  fire,  looks  at  him  through 
eye-glass.  Samuel  enters,  and  goes  to  Polly,  R.  C,  behind 
cradle,  and  producing  weddingring  from  several  paj)ers, 
holds  it  up  before  her  eyes.     Piano  till  end.] 

[Curtain.] 

2d.  [Picture,  Cheviot  embracing  Miss  Treherne,  C, 
Belvawney  is  being  comforted  by  Minnie,  C,  up  stage, 
Angus  is  solacing  Maggie,  R.,  and  Mrs.  Macfarlane  is  re- 
posing on  Mr.  Symperson's  bosom,  L.  C] 

[Curtain-] 

3d.  [Arthur  affectionately  places  his  arm  in  May^s, 
Tom  turns,  smiling,  to  Sir  Conyers  and  Lady  Conyers,  and 
shows  match-box.] 

Lady  Conyers. 
Arthur.  Tom, 

May.  Sir  Conyers. 

[Curtain.] 


THEORETICAL  CONSTRUCTION.  143 

(3.)  It  cannot  be  too  often  repeated  that 
tlie  close,  like  every  other  incident  of  the 
play,  must  be  the  result  of  the  preceding  ac- 
tion. The  sudden  introduction  of  unexpected, 
arbitrary  agencies  to  bring  about  a  solution  of 
the  plot  (the  deus  ex  machina  of  the  classic 
stage),  such  as  the  discovery  of  a  missing 
will,  or  the  finding  of  a  lost  treasure,  is  con- 
trary to  all  rational  principles  of  dramatic 
construction. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THEATRICAL   CONVENTIONALITIES. 

1.  Importance  of  the  Subject.  —  Igno- 
rance of  stage  limitations  and  conventionali- 
ties is  one  of  the  most  common  of  the  obsta- 
cles that  interfere  with  the  success  of  the  begin- 
ner. In  the  case  of  those  rules  of  construction 
which  are  based  upon  artistic  or  psychological 
principles,  the  playwright's  own  natural  sense 
of  the  fitness  of  things  is  often  his  safest 
guide.  But,  with  reference  to  stage  conven- 
tions, this  is  not  always  so.  To  the  beginner, 
especially  if  his  artistic  sense  is  keen,  many 
of  the  most  binding  traditions  of  the  stage 
must  at  first  seem  thoroughly  illogical  and 
unnatural.  Upon  further  acquaintance,  it  is 
true,  they  turn  out  to  have  a  logic  and  a  fit- 
ness of  their  own ;  but  no  mere  exercise  of 
reason  or  intuition  would  ever  enable  him 
either  to  forecast  them  or  to  dispense  with 
them  altogether, 

2.  Kinds  of  Conventions.  —  There  are 
two  principal  classes  of  theatrical  conven- 
tions :  — 

(1.)  Those  arising  from  the  peculiar  con- 
struction of  the  theatre,  and  the  consequent 
conditions  of  stage  representation. 


THEATRICAL  CONVENTIONALITIES.        145 

(2.)  Histrionic  traditions  developed  at  va- 
rious times  dui'ing  the  history  of  the  stage. 

The  construction  of  the  theatre  has  already 
been  explained  in  a  preceding  chapter,  ^  an 
acquaintance  with  Avhich,  on  the  part  of  the 
student,  will  be  assumed  in  what  follows. 

3.  Point  of  View  of  the  Audience.  —  The 
stage  has  but  three  sides.  This  is  a  point  so 
often  neglected,  that  it  is  worth  while  empha- 
sizing it  by  means  of  italics.  The  stage  has 
a  back,  and  a  right  and  a  left  side ;  but  the 
front  is  removed  in  order  that  the  audience 
may  see  what  is  going  on.  While  in  a  novel 
or  description,  therefore,  persons  may  be 
represented  as  acting  in  a  four-sided  room, 
and  as  seen  from  any  and  every  point  of  view, 
in  the  drama  they  must  be  shown  as  acting 
in  a  room  with  one  side  removed,  and  as  seen 
from  any  one  of  a  limited  number  of  view- 
points. From  this  fact  the  following  rules 
may  be  deduced :  — 

(1.)  Every  important  action  must  take 
place  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  well  forward. 
Tor  this  reason,  strong  situations  must  be 
made  independent  of  scener}^,  unless  the  lat- 
ter can  be  brought  well  down  to  the  front. 
For  example,  a  conversation  between  two 
characters  before  the  door  of  a  house,  when 
the  house  is  painted  on  a  flat  or  drop  at  the 
back  of  the  stage,  will,  for  the  bulk  of  the 
audience,  be  almost  wholly  lost.     The  case 

^  See  Chapter  ii. 


146  THE  ART  OF  PLAT  WRITING. 

will  be  still  worse  if  the  house  is  at  the  side 
and  well  back.  In  such  cases,  the  best  plan 
is  to  provide  a  front  scene ;  that  is,  one  in 
which  a  scene  is  pushed  out  on  each  side,  in 
the  grooves  at  1  E.  E.  and  L. 

(2.)  Care  must  be  taken  that,  when  two  ac- 
tions are  represented  as  taking  place  at  the 
same  time,  one  does  not  hide  the  other  from 
some  one  of  the  spectators. 

(3.)  The  actors  should  not  be  compelled  by 
any  action  of  the  drama  to  turn  their  backs 
upon  the  audience,  ^  especially  while  speaking. 
For  example,  if  A.  is  down  front  in  the  centre 
when  B.  enters  at  centre  rear,  A.  cannot  speak 
to  B.  without  turning  his  face  directly  to  the 
rear.  The  difficulty  may  be  avoided  by  mak- 
ing A.  cross  to  the  right  or  left  before  B.'s 
enter. 

4.  Stage  Distances.  —  The  actual  dis- 
tances on  the  stage  do  not  always  correspond 
to  the  supposed  distances  of  the  play.  In 
Shakespeare's  Richard  III.  the  tents  of 
Richard  and  of  Richmond  are  shown  at  oppo- 
site sides  of  the  stage,  while  the  audience  is 
expected  to  imagine  them  a  mile  or  so  apart. 

^  This  rule  must  be  insisted  upon,  although  the  cus- 
toms of  the  modem  stage  are  rapidly  leaving  it  out  of 
sight.  Many  of  the  most  pathetic  scenes  in  plays  that 
might  be  mentioned  are  deprived  of  half  their  effect  by 
the  fact  that  the  audience  is  made  to  gaze  upon  the  xm- 
expressive  back  of  the  most  important  character,  instead 
of  upon  his  speaking  countenance. 


THEATRICAL  CONVENTIONALITIES.        147 

In  modern  plays  this  license  is  not  usually 
taken  advantage  of. 

5.  Changes  of  Scene  during  the  Act.  — 
This  is  a  privilege  so  thoroughly  established  on 
the  English  stage  that  there  is  little  chance  for 
the  unity  of  place  ever  to  be  revived.  Never- 
theless, a  protest  may  be  entered  against  too 
numerous  and  too  abrupt  shifting  of  the  lo- 
cality. The  audience  should  in  some  way 
(besides  the  notice  on  the  play-bill)  be  made 
to  anticipate  the  nature  of  the  change. 

In  pure  comedy,  comedy-drama,  and  emo- 
tional drama,  and  in  all  plays  in  which  the 
movement  is  simple  and  regular,  the  same 
scene  may  with  profit  be  retained  through- 
out the  act.  Plots  in  which  there  are  many 
complications  call  for  more  frequent  changes. 
The  change  of  scene  is  often  useful  where 
two  lines  of  action  are  carried  on  together. 
Thus,  in  Shakespeare's  Merchant  of  Venice, 
the  scene  changes  from  the  group  of  charac- 
ters at  Venice  to  the  group  at  Belmont,  and 
thus  the  two  are  kept  apart  until  the  court 
scene.  This  also  gives  variety  to  the  stage 
picture. 

6.  Order  of  Scenes.  —  The  change  of  scene 
may  be  brought  about  by  pushing  out  from 
the  grooves  at  each  side  scenes  that  shall  join 
in  the  centre,  by  dropping  cloths  from  the 
flies,  by  pushing  up  flats  from  the  dock,  or  by 
lowering  the  drop  curtain  for  a  brief  period 
while  the  change   of  scene   is   being  made. 


148  THE  ART  OF  PL  AY  WRITING. 

The  order  in  -which  these  changes  are  made 
requires  some  little  care  :  — 

(1.)  A  front  scene  (see  preceding  para* 
graph)  must  be  followed  by  a  full  scene. 
That  is,  if  in  one  scene  the  flats  are  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  front  of  the  stage,  the  next 
scene  should  be  brought  about  merely  by 
pushing  the  scenery  back  into  the  wings,  and 
so  disclosing  the  full  depth  of  the  stage. 

(2.)  Care  must  be  taken  not  to  introduce 
elaborate  properties  into  the  front  scenes. 
When  the  flats  are  separated,  the  front  of  the 
stage  becomes  a  part  of  the  full  scene,  and,  as 
a  consequence,  chairs,  tables,  etc.,  will  either 
be  left  standing  at  the  front,  or  must  be  car- 
ried out  by  the  attendants  amid  the  jeers  of 
the  gallery.  In  Act  V.,  Sc.  1,  of  Francesca  da 
Rimini,  Paolo  and  Francesca  appear  in  a  front 
scene  sitting  upon  a  settee.  At  the  close  of 
the  scene,  the  flats  are  drawn  apart,  showing 
as  a  full  scene  the  camp  of  Lanciotto.  The 
question  is,  how  to  get  rid  of  the  settee.  This 
was  accomplished,  in  the  representation  given 
by  Lawrence  Barrett's  company,  by  attaching 
a  rope  to  one  of  the  legs  of  the  settee  and 
hauling  out  coincidently  with  the  movement 
of  the  flat.  The  effect,  especially  to  those 
who  could  see  the  rope,  and  more  particularly 
when  settee  and  flat  did  not  move  at  the  same 
rate  of  speed,  was  decidedly  ludicrous. 

(3.)  The  front  scene,  for  the  same  reasons, 
must  not  require  *'  set "  pieces  of  any  sort 


THEATRICAL  CONVENTIONALITIES.        149 

To  see  huge  rocks  gliding  off  the  stage  at  the 
sound  of  the  prompter's  whistle  excites  a 
feeling  of  incongruity,  even  in  those  who  lay 
little  stress  upon  theatrical  realism. 

(4.)  If  a  front  scene,  in  the  middle  of  an 
act,  is  to  be  followed  by  a  full  scene  of  con- 
siderable elaborateness,  sufficient  time  must 
be  allowed  for  the  stage  hands  to  get  the 
stage  set.  The  average  time  required  to  set 
a  drawing-room  or  palace-scene  is  about  eight 
minutes ;  but  this  will  not  serve  as  a  rule  to 
go  by  in  every  case.  A  little  timing  of  the 
performance  of  actual  plays  is  the  surest 
method  of  acquiring  experience  in  this  matter, 
though  much  may  be  learned  from  an  exami- 
nation of  printed  plays. 

(5.)  As  the  noise  made  in  setting  a  scene 
is  sometimes  considerable,  the  front  scene 
should  be  of  a  loud  and  stirring  character. 
All  attempts  at  subtile  character-drawing  or 
tender  pathos  are  likely  to  be  frustrated  by 
the  banging  of  hammers  and  the  rumbling  of 
stage  machinery. 

7.  Stage  Entrances.  —  An  ''  interior  "  is 
conventionally  allowed  to  have  as  many  en- 
trances as  the  dramatist  chooses  to  give  it  — 
as  far,  of  course,  as  the  construction  of  the 
stage  will  allow.  (See  diagrams  of  Interiors 
in  Chapter  V.)  Thus  a  room  will  frequently 
be  represented,  in  violation  of  all  probability, 
as  having  three  or  four  entrances  at  each 
side.     Except  in  the  lightest  comedy,  it  is 


150  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

better  to  restrict  the  number.  The  conven- 
tional distribution  of  entrances  has  already 
been  referred  to.^ 

8.  Stage  Doors.  —  Stage  doors,  in  interi- 
ors, are  generally  made  to  open  outward.  If 
the  exigencies  of  the  play  demand  that  a 
door  open  inward,  the  fact  should  be  stated 
in  the  manuscript. 

9.  Stage  Traditions.  —  These  are  of  three 
general  classes  :  — 

(1.)  Those  relating  to  stage  time. 
(2.)  Those  relating  to  dialogues. 
(3.)  Those  relating  to  costume. 

10.  Stage  Time.  —  Stage  time  moves  fast 
or  slow  according  to  the  desire  of  the  drama- 
tist. Generally  the  supposed  duration  of 
events  upon  the  stage  is  about  five  or  six 
times  as  long  as  the  actual  period  occupied 
by  the  representation.  That  is,  at  the  end 
of  a  dialogue  of  five  minutes,  it  is  allowable 
to  make  one  of  the  characters  say,  "Here 
we  've  been  talking  for  a  whole  half-hour  ;  " 
or,  if  at  one  stage  of  the  play,  a  clock  outside 
strikes  four,  it  may  be  made  to  strike  five 
after  a  lapse  of  ten  to  fifteen  minutes.  The 
justification  of  this  license  is  found  in  the 
fact  that  the  spectator,  if  really  interested, 
takes  no  note  of  time.  A  tragic  situation,  or 
one  in  which  the  element  of  suspense  is 
strong,  may  seem  to  last  for  hours.  This 
privilege  is  sometimes  pushed  to  a  great  ex- 

^  See  Chapters  v.  and  vi, 


THEATRICAL  CONVENTIONALITIES.        151 

treme  in  the  case  of  persons  sent  on  errands, 
etc.  A  character  will  re-enter  after  a  lapse  of 
three  minutes  and  recount  adventures  that 
would  demand  several  hours  for  their  actual 
occurrence.  The  skillful  dramatist  will  man- 
age to  divert  attention  from  these  seeming 
inconsistencies  by  concentrating  interest  on 
the  characters  or  the  action. 

11.  Writing  Letters,  etc.  —  Letters  or 
other  documents  written  in  the  presence  of  the 
audience  usually  proceed  at  the  rate  employed 
in  speaking  very  deliberately.  The  actor 
does  not,  of  course,  do  any  actual  writing. 
Such  letters  should  always  be  brief,  as  the 
discrepancy  between  the  movement  of  the 
pen  and  the  rate  of  speed  in  speaking  the 
contents  soon  grows  ridiculous.  For  the  actor 
to  speak  at  all  while  writing  is  in  most  cases 
a  pure  convention.^ 

12.  Time  between  Acts.  —  Any  period  of 
time  may  be  supposed  to  elapse  between 
acts.  If  the  period  extends  to  several  years, 
however,  the  play  is  really  divided  into  two 
distinct  parts.  When  the  long  interval  comes 
after  the  first  act,  the  latter  is  really  no  more 
than  a  prologue.  Most  frequently  it  comes 
just  before  the  last  act.  The  time  assumed 
to  pass  during  the  other  entr'actes  should  be 
as  short  as  possible. 

^  One  of  tbe  most  conventional  and  at  the  same  time 
most  effective  spoken  scenes  during  the  writing  of  a  let- 
ter, —  the  -whole  scene  being  a  long  monologue,  —  is  to 
be  found  in  Bronson  Howard's  One  of  Our  Girls. 


152  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

13.  Conventionalities  of  the  Dialogue. 

—  Many  of  the  most  important  conventional- 
ities of  the  dialogue  have  been  already  dis- 
cussed,^ and  need  not  be  here  dwelt  upon. 
However,  a  few  cautions  regarding  the  use  of 
the  monologue,  the  "  apart  "  and  the  *'  aside  " 
will  not  be  out  of  place. 

14.  The  Monologue.  —  In  most  modem 
plays,  monologues  are  principally  employed 
to  enlighten  the  audience  upon  matters  not 
easily  conveyed  in  the  way  of  action.  They 
•are  the  pitfalls  of  young  and  inexperienced 
playwrights,  who  are  forever  attempting  to 
crowd  into  a  monologue  whatever  they  can- 
not compel  their  characters  to  utter  in  dia- 
logues ;  nor  do  the  old  hands  at  the  trade 
come  off  altogether  blameless  of  this  subter- 
fuge. Used  in  moderation  the  monologue 
may  be  made  very  effective ;  but  the  beginner 
will  do  well  to  pass  it  by  on  the  other  side, 
reserving  it  as  the  last  resource  in  surmount- 
ing what  proves  to  be  an  otherwise  insuper- 
able obstacle  to  the  action  of  the  drama, 

15.  The  Apart.  —  The  apart  is  little  more 
than  a  short  monologue,  its  distinctive  char- 
acteristic being  that  it  occurs  in  the  midst  of 
a  dialogue.  It  is  at  the  same  time  something 
separate  from  the  dialogue  itself,  and  yet  a 
potent  factor  in  the  total  representative  ef- 
fect.     An  affirmative  sentence,  for  instance, 

^  See  Chapter  vii.,  Noa.  7, 13, 15,  17 ;  also  Chapter  viii., 

Nos.  4,  7,  9,  11. 


THEATRICAL  CONVENTIONALITIES.        153 

may  be  made  to  convey  to  the  audience  a 
negative  meaning  by  prefixing  or  suffixing  a 
significant  apart.  Thus  the  unctuous  villain : 
"Indeed,  sir,  you  may  depend  upon  me  — 
[^apart^  to  pull  the  wool  over  your  eyes," 
Here  the  audience  is  presented  with  two  con- 
tradictory ideas,  the  first  belonging  to  the 
story  proper,  the  second  to  the  plot.  The 
apart  is  intended  for  the  audience ;  the  audi- 
ence alone  is  supposed  to  hear  it.  Neverthe- 
less, an  apart  should  never  be  addressed  di- 
rectly to  the  audience.  On  the  whole,  the 
apart  is  to  be  used  sparingly.  The  audience 
should  hear  an  apart  and  understand  its 
value,  and  yet  not  oe  conscious  how  and 
when  this  additional  information  was  given. 
To  attain  this  end,  two  rules  must  be  ob- 
served : 

(1.)  The  apart  should  be  worded  in  such  a 
way  that  it  will  not  obtrude  upon  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  audience  as  an  appeal  to  its 
interest  or  sympathy. 

(2.)  In  the  second  place,  the  actor,  in  de- 
livering the  apart,  should  address  his  own 
inner  consciousness  —  or  anything  except  the 
audience  before  him.^ 

^  This  pertains  more  to  acting  than  to  the  art  of  play- 
writing.  We  take  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to 
guard  the  beginner  against  relying  too  much  upon  an 
actor's  ability  in  this  direction.  On  the  wliole,  actors 
have  a  great  dislike  for  aparts  and  asides,  and,  if  these 
are  not  very  carefully  worded,  often  find  it  di£ELcult  to 
do  justice  to  their  lines. 


154  THE  ART  OF  PLAY  WRITING. 

16.  The  Aside.  —  The  aside  is  of  much 
the  same  nature  as  the  apart.  It  is  likewise 
intended  for  the  audience  only ;  but  it  differs 
from  the  apart  proper  in  that  it  is  addressed 
to  a  character  on  the  stage,  is  heard  by  him 
and  by  the  audience,  but  is  supposed  not  to 
be  heard  by  the  other  character  or  characters 
present.  All  that  has  been  said  of  the  apart 
is  true  of  the  aside. ^ 

17.  The  Stage  "Whisper.  —  The  stage 
whisper,  except  as  a  broadly  comic  effect,  is 
out  of  date.  Aparts  and  asides  are  now  de- 
livered in  an  ordinary  tone  of  voice,  the  fact 
that  they  are  not  intended  to  be  heard  by 
others  than  those  to  whom  they  are  addressed 
being  implied  by  the  action. 

18.  Relating  Known  Events.  —  Many 
conventions  of  the  dialogue  arise  from  the 
necessities  of  exposition.  One  of  the  most 
common  is  to  make  two  characters  relate  to 
each  other  facts  with  which  both  are  familiar. 
Thus  in  Kobertson's  Home,  Mountraffe  and 
Mrs.  Pinchbeck  converse  as  follows  : 

Mount.     Did  n't  you  get  married  ? 

Mrs.  P.     To  a  man  old  enough  to  be  my  father. 

Mount.  What  of  that  ?  I  thought  he  had  plenty  of  the 
ready. 

Mrs.  P.    He  had  n't  a  penny. 

Mount.  No,  the  old  villain,  so  I  found  out  when  it  was 
too  late. 

^  See  article  by  the  author  in  the  Forum  for  February, 
1890,  from  which  the  above  on  the  monologue,  apart 
and  aside  has  been  taken. 


THEATRICAL  CONVENTIONALITIES.       155 

19.  Unimportant  Dialogues.  —  Certain 
lines  in  every  play  are  almost  certain  not  to 
be  heard  by  the  majority  of  the  audience. 
The  dramatist  must,  therefore,  avoid  putting 
into  them  anything  very  essential  for  the 
audience  to  know.     They  are  usually  :  — 

(1.)  The  first  few  words  of  the  play.  The 
confusion  in  the  audience  during  the  first 
minute  or  so  after  the  curtain  rises  renders 
it  impossible  for  any  except  those  in  the 
front  rows  to  hear  what  is  said  on  the  stage. 
Many  dramatists  make  a  practice  of  throwing 
in  at  the  beginning  a  short  lively  scene  of  no 
relevancy  whatever  to  the  rest  of  the  play 
just  to  get  the  audience  quiet. 

(2.)  The  lines  following  a  "laugh"  or  a 
round  of  applause.  These  places  the  drama- 
tist cannot  always  anticipate,  and  plays  some- 
times require  remodelling  simply  because  the 
"  laugh  "  comes  in  at  unexpected  points. 

20.  Costume,  —  Only  when  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  character  or  movement  of 
the  play  need  the  costumes  of  the  actors  be 
described  in  the  manuscript.  For  instance, 
the  mere  statement  "  eccentric  costume  "  will 
usually  suffice  for  all  cases  of  grotesque  vari- 
ations from  the  conventional. 

An  actor  should  not,  in  general,  be  required 
to  do  anything  on  the  stage  which  will  dis- 
turb his  "  make  up."  Actors  do  not  like  to 
wash  their  hands  on  the  stage,  rumple  their 
hair,  wipe  their  eyes,  etc. 


156  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

The  personal  likes  and  dislikes  of  tlie  ac- 
tors in  the  cast,  so  far  as  they  can  be  ascer- 
tained, must  be  kept  constantly  in  mind. 
Two  similar  characters  should  be  avoided. 
In  case  there  are  two  characters  of  about  the 
same  ability,  the  part  of  one  should  not  be 
allowed  to  fall  in  strength  below  that  of  the 
other.  Stage  superstitions  must  also  be 
looked  after.  They  may  be  learned  from  a 
five  minutes'  conversation  with  any  actor. 
The  writer  knows  of  one  play  that  was  re- 
jected because  a  character  in  it  was  made  to 
remark  to  another  that  he  "  would  meet  him 
in  thirteen  minutes." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

HOW   TO    WRITE    A    PLAT. 

Blocking  Out. 

1.  Getting  to  Work.  —  The  theoretical 
construction  of  a  play  has  been  set  forth  in 
the  preceding  chapters.  Let  us  now  consider 
the  process  actually  pursued  by  the  playwright 
in  putting  his  material  into  shape.  We  will 
suppose  that  the  young  author  has  been  given 
a  commission  to  write  a  light  comedy  for  a 
stock  company  with  from  eight  to  ten  char- 
acters, including  servants,  etc.  His  only  in- 
structions are,  that  there  shall  be  plenty  of 
incidents  and  a  little  chance  for  the  emotional 
on  the  part  of  the  leading  lady. 

If  the  playwright  is  acquainted  with  the 
company,  he  will  probably  arrange  his  char- 
acters to  fit  the  personal  peculiarities  of  the 
actors,  so  that  each  one  may  be  given  an  op- 
portunity to  display  his  best  points.  A  play 
written  on  commission,  with  full  knowledge 
of  those  who  are  to  play  it,  thus  has  a  great 
advantage  over  one  written  at  hap-hazard.  On 
the  other  hand,  a  play  written  for  a  special 
company  may  not  fit  any  other,  and  hence 
may  not  be  so  salable  as  one  constructed  on 
a  more  flexible  plan. 


158  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITING. 

2.  Selection  of  the  Story.  —  The  first  act 
of  the  playwright  will  be  to  find  a  suitable 
story.  He  will  turn,  we  may  suppose,  to  his 
scrap-book,  or  index  rerum,  or  whatever  recep- 
tacle he  may  have  for  stray  ideas ;  and  will 
there  find,  perhaps,  some  such  crude  outline 
as  this :  — 

"  A  young  woman  and  an  elderly  woman  in 
love  with  the  same  man." 

3.  Expansion  of  the  Story.  —  This  is  at 
once  seen  to  be  a  good  basis  for  a  story  ;  but, 
of  course,  it  needs  filling  out.  In  the  first 
place,  it  provides  for  but  three  characters,  a 
gentleman  and  two  ladies.  A  little  reflection 
on  the  complications  that  are  likely  to  arise 
will  suggest  that  the  conflict  may  be  height- 
ened by  adding  a  male  character  who  is  in 
love  with  the  elderly  lady,  and  whom  the 
elderly  lady  greatly  respects,  though  she  does 
not  love  him.  There  is  a  good  reason  for  this 
in  the  necessity  usually  found  in  comedy,  of 
pairing  off  the  principal  characters  at  the 
close.  If  one  of  the  ladies  gets  the  object  of 
her  choice,  the  second  may  consent  to  accept 
the  other  man.  Locating  the  story,  for  the 
nonce,  in  France,  and  giving  names  to  the 
characters,  the  plot  now  runs  in  this  way  :  — 

"  Leonie  (the  young  woman)  and  the  Coun- 
tess (the  elderly  lady),  are  in  love  with  Henri. 
Gustave  is  in  love  with  the  Countess,  who 
greatly  respects  him,  and  might  marry  him 
were  it  not  for  Henri.     In  the  end  Leonie 


HOW  TO  WRITE  A  PLAY.  159 

gets  Henri,  and  the  Countess  accepts  Gus- 
tave." 

4.  Questions  and  Answers.  —  Pondering 
over  this  story  will  probably  suggest  the  fol- 
lowing questions  and  answers  :  — 

(1.)  Qu.  How  can  the  conflict  of  interests 
between  Leonie  and  the  Countess  be  made 
more  complex  ? 

Ans.  By  making  Leonie  some  relative  of 
the  Countess,  say  a  niece,  and  her  protegee  as 
well. 

(2.)  Qu.  In  what  way  can  the  Countess 
and  Leonie  be  made  to  show  their  love  for 
Henri  ? 

Ans.  Suppose  Henri  to  be  in  some  serious 
danger.  Then  each  can  use  her  best  eiforts 
to  extricate  him.  He  will  thus  be  under  obli- 
gation to  the  one  who  saves  his  life.  If  this 
one  is  not  the  woman  he  loves,  still  further 
complication  will  ensue. 

(3.)  Qu.  What  shall  be  the  peril  to  which 
Henri  is  exposed  ? 

Ans.  Make  him  a  fugitive  from  justice, 
say  a  conspirator  against  the  government. 
Have  him  take  refuge  in  the  Countess's  house, 
at  her  desire,  and  remain  there  in  disguise. 
This  will  bring  him  in  contact  with  all  the 
other  characters.  It  will  also  give  Leonie  a 
chance  to  fall  in  love  with  him  without  know- 
ing who  he  really  is,  and  so  open  the  way  to 
several  interesting  situations.  An  officer  of 
the  government  may  come  with  a  company 
of  soldiers  to  the  house  to  arrest  him. 


160  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITINQ. 

(4.)  Qu.    How  shall  the  Countess  conduct 

herself  toward  Gustave  ? 

Ans.  The  Countess  respects  Gustave,  and, 
as  she  is  to  accept  him  in  the  end,  she  had 
better  be  made  to  show  that  she  has,  at  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  some  fondness  for  him. 
During  the  play,  however,  she  will  probably 
find  him  in  the  way,  and  she  may  even  ask 
him  to  sacrifice  himself  for  Henri. 

(5.)  Qu.  What  shall  be  the  relations  be- 
tween the  Countess  and  Leonie  ? 

Ans.  The  Countess  loves  hev  protegee,  and 
is  in  duty  bound  to  regard  her  interests.  This 
gives  an  opportunity  for  two  fine  situations,  — 
one  when  the  Countess  discovers  that  Leonie 
is  in  love  with  Henri ;  another,  when  she  dis- 
covers that  Henri  is  in  love  with  Leonie,  but 
thinks  himself  bound  to  the  Countess  because 
the  latter  has  saved  his  life.  This  leaves  the 
Countess  struggling  between  equally  unpleas- 
ant alternatives. 

(6.)  Qu.  How  can  the  Countess  be  made 
to  hope  for  success  against  the  younger  charms 
of  Leonie  ? 

Ans.  Make  Gustave  a  young  man,  say 
twenty-five.  If  Gustave  can  love  her,  why 
should  not  Henri  do  the  same  ?  She  may 
even  experiment,  so  to  speak,  on  Gustave,  and 
so  arouse  false  hopes  in  his  heart.  This  gives 
a  chance  for  a  capital  comic  situation,  in 
which  the  Countess,  delighted  to  find  that  she 
can  be  loved  by  a  young  man,  and  therefore 


HOW  TO  WRITE  A  PLAT.  161 

is  still  a  formidable  rival  to  Leonie,  encour- 
ages poor  Gustave  to  declare  himself. 

(7.)  Qxi.  Shall  Leonie  know  who  Henri 
really  is  ? 

Ans.  It  will  be  better  to  have  Leonie 
think  at  first  that  Henri  is  actually  a  servant. 
Several  amusing  situations  may  be  made  out 
of  this  misunderstanding. 

5.  Importance  of  Taking  Notes.  —  This 
process  of  question  and  answer  should  be  car- 
ried on  until  all  possible  complications  have 
been  exhausted.  Naturally,  many  ideas  will 
suggest  themselves  which  will  afterwards 
turn  out  to  be  impracticable;  strong  situa- 
tions will  be  imagined,  which,  as  the  story 
develops,  will  be  found  out  of  harmony  with 
the  rest  of  the  plot.  All  these  superfluous 
suggestions  will,  at  the  proper  time,  be  thrown 
aside  as  useless  ;  but,  at  the  beginning,  the 
playwright  should  jot  down  everything,  hel- 
ter-skelter, just  as  it  comes  into  his  head. 
The  imagination  is  never  so  lively  as  when  it 
is  upon  the  track  of  a  new  idea.  All  sorts 
of  characters,  scenes,  and  situations,  throng 
through  the  mind.  What  particular  images 
are  destined  to  be  fixed,  and  what  thrown 
away,  the  playwright  cannot  at  this  point  de- 
termine. Moreover,  a  good  situation  is  al- 
ways valuable  property,  and  may  form  the 
nucleus  of  another  pla5^  It  not  infrequently 
happens  that  a  playwright,  while  blocking 
out  a  play  upon  a  plot  already  half  completed, 


162  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

will  chance  upon  some  new  idea  for  which  he 
will  abandon  all  that  he  has  previously  accom- 
plished. 

6.  Arranging  the  Material.  —  "When  the 
playwright  finds  the  first  rush  of  imagination 
beginning  to  flag  somewhat,  he  may  set  about 
the  work  of  putting  the  material  into  system- 
atic order.  If  his  brain  has  been  actively  at 
work,  the  pages  of  his  note-book  will  probably 
present  a  chaotic  mass  of  suggestions  regard- 
ing characters,  names,  situations,  dialogue, 
scenery,  stage  -  setting,  and  even  costume. 
From  these  he  may  at  first  pick  out  whatever 
seems  available,  under  the  following  heads  :  — 

(1.)  Characters. 

(2.)  Situations. 

As  these  are  brought  together  in  their 
proper  order,  careful  judgment  must  be  exer- 
cised to  choose  what  is  most  suitable  to  the 
plot,  so  far  as  it  has  developed  itself.  New 
ideas  will  also  probably  occur,  which  may 
now  be  set  down  in  their  rightful  connection. 

7.  Characters.  —  These,  as  has  already 
been  pointed  out,  are  not  to  be  selected  arbi- 
trarily, but  with  due  reference  to  the  action 
and  the  part  they  are  to  play  in  it.  Suppos- 
ing the  proper  care  to  have  been  observed,  the 
following  may  be  the  form  which  the  notes 
will  take :  — 

(1.)  The  Countess  D'Autreval.  Leading 
lady.  Aged  32.  Dashing,  self-possessed,  full 
of  wit,  resource,  and  finesse.     Capable  of  out- 


HOW   TO   WRITE  A  PLAY.  163 

witting  any  number  of  government  spies. 
Generous  enough  to  forgive  Leonie  for  loving 
Henri,  but  not  the  sort  of  woman  to  give  up 
without  a  struggle.  Deeply  infatuated  with 
Henri,  but  retaining  great  admiration  for 
Gustave. 

(2.)  Leonie  de  la  Villegontier.  Ingenue, 
aged  16.  An  orphan,  and  protegee  of  the 
Countess.  Innocent,  impulsive  and  indiscreet. 
The  kind  to  fall  in  love  at  first  sight. 

(3.)  Henri  de  Flavigneul.  Lover,  aged  22. 
Brave,  reckless  and  impulsive.  (The  offense 
for  which  he  has  been  condemned  to  death  is 
perhaps  some  reckless  act  of  generosity  mis- 
construed as  conspiracy.)  Is  in  disguise  as 
the  Countess's  groom  and  goes  by  the  name 
of  Charles. 

(4.)  Gustave  de  Grignon.  Comedian  (with 
touch  of  sentiment).  Aged  25.  Tries  to  be 
brave  in  order  to  please  the  Countess,  but  has 
a  natural  shrinking  from  danger.  He  imag- 
ines all  sorts  of  perilous  situations  in  which 
he  wins  the  favor  of  the  Countess  by  his 
courage,  but  when  the  actual  trial  comes  he 
wavers.  At  the  last  critical  moment  his 
native  manhood  asserts  itself  and  he  becomes 
a  hero.  {Suggestion  :  For  humorous  effect,  he 
might  pretend  to  have  inherited  two  different 
natures ;  one,  of  caution,  from  his  father ; 
another,  of  reckless  daring,  from  his  mother.) 

(5.)  Baron  de  Montrichard.  Heavy,  aged 
45.     General  in  the  French  army.     Sly,  sus- 


164  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

picious  and  relentless.     Prides  himself  on  Ms 
cunning.     Very  polite  to  the  ladies. 

(6-9.)  A  Brigadier  ;  two  Gendarmes ;  a 
Servant.  These  may  be  walking  gentlemen. 
Perhaps  the  first  may  be  given  a  few  lines. 

8.  Synopsis  of  Situations.  —  These  may 
be  set  down  in  any  order  at  first,  and  after- 
wards arranged,  but  it  will  save  time  if  the 
order  of  the  story  is  followed  as  nearly  as  it 
can  be  anticipated. 

(1.)  Leonie,  believing  Henri  to  be  an  ordi- 
nary servant,  is  indignant  at  what  she  con- 
siders his  presumption,  and  tries  to  make  him 
*'  keep  his  place." 

(2.)  Leonie  while  out  riding  is  run  away 
with  by  her  horse.  Her  life  is  saved  by 
Henri,  who  is  in  attendance  upon  her  as 
groom.  Leonie  is  angry  at  Henri's  familiar- 
ity, and  he  confesses  that  he  is  not  a  servant. 
Leonie  proceeds  to  fall  in  love  with  him. 

(3.)  Leonie  recounts  her  adventure  to  the 
Countess  and  ends  by  telling  the  latter  that 
she  is  in  love  with  Henri.  Situation  for  the 
Countess,  in  which  she  displays  contending 
emotions. 

(4.)  The  Countess  in  doubt  whether  she  is 
young  enough  to  capture  Henri.  Gustave 
shows  some  signs  of  emotion.  The  Countess 
leads  him  on  to  make  a  proposal.  The  Coun- 
tess shows  great  delight,  which  Gustave  in- 
terprets as  a  favorable  answer. 

(5).  The  Baron  has  come  to  arrest  Henri 


HOW  TO  WRITE  A   PLAY.  165 

The  latter,  in  his  disguise  as  servant,  waits 
upon  the  Baron.  The  Baron  offers  him  a 
bribe  to  tell  where  Henri  is  concealed,  and 
Henri  accepts  the  money. 

(6.)  The  Countess  defies  the  Baron  to  find 
Henri. 

(7.)  The  Baron  has  an  interview  with  L^- 
onie,  who,  terrified  out  of  her  senses,  unwit- 
tingly discloses  that  Henri  is  disguised  as 
one  of  the  servants.  She  implores  mercy  of 
the  Baron,  who  laughs  at  her.  Leonie's  self- 
reproach  before  Henri  and  the  Countess. 

(8.)  Secret  joy  of  the  Countess  that  it  is 
Leonie  who  has  brought  Henri  into  danger. 
She  feels  confident  that  if  she  now  saves 
Henri's  life,  he  will  be  bound  to  love  her. 

(9.)  The  Countess  proposes  to  Gustave  to 
dress  himself  in  Henri's  clothes  and  allow 
himself  to  be  arrested.  Gustave's  struggle 
with  himself.     He  finally  consents. 

(10.)  The  Baron  arrests  Gustave,  disguised 
as  the  groom. 

(11.)  Henri's  gratitude.  The  Countess 
thinking  that  he  is  in  love  with  her,  confesses 
her  love  for  him. 

(12.)  The  Baron  sends  Henri  away,  on  his 
own  horse,  on  an  errand,  thus  giving  him  a 
chance  to  escape. 

(13.)  Comic  situation  in  which  the  Baron 
describes  to  Gustave  the  way  in  which  he 
will  be  shot.  Gustave's  terror.  He  is  about 
to  assert  that  he  is   not    Henri,   but   is  re- 


166  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITINQ. 

strained  by  the  entrance  of  the  Countess. 
Eage  of  the  Baron  when  he  discovers  the 
trick. 

(14.)  Scene  between  Countess  and  Leonie. 
Leonie  in  despair.  Henri  has  told  her  he  is 
bound  to  another.  Joy  of  the  Countess. 
But,  Leonie  adds,  it  is  only  by  gratitude,  not 
by  love.  Despair  of  the  Countess,  who  re- 
solves to  give  him  up. 

(15.)  Henri  returns.  He  has  heard  that 
Gustave  is  to  be  shot  in  his  place,  and  will 
not  allow  him  to  be  sacrificed. 

(16.)  The  Countess  gives  Henri  to  Leonie. 

(17.)  Arrival  of  an  amnesty  pardoning 
Henri. 

In  practical  work  it  will  be  found  advisable 
to  write  down  the  incidents  on  separate  slips, 
which  can  be  arranged  in  any  desired  order, 
transposed  at  will,  and  supplemented  at  any 
particular  stage  of  the  story. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

HOW  TO  WRITE  A  PLAY  (continued). 

Rearrangement. 

1.  Order  of  Work.  —  If  we  may  assume 
tlie  process  described  in  the  foregoing  chapter 
actually  to  have  taken  place,  the  play  is  now 
well  under  way.  In  its  general  outlines  it 
has  arrived  at  a  definite  form  in  the  mind  of 
the  dramatist.  The  chaotic  mass  of  sugges- 
tions has  been  purged  of  most  of  its  irrele- 
vant matter  and  the  remainder  has  taken  the 
form  of  a  completely  developed  organism 
with  a  beginning,  a  middle  and  an  end.  We 
have  as  yet,  however,  only  a  skeleton,  with 
here  and  there  an  occasional  nerve  or  blood 
vessel.  Enough  has  been  constructed,  per- 
haps, to  show  the  possibilities  of  the  play ;  it 
may  already  be  seen  whether  it  has  situations 
that  will  make  it  live,  characters  that  will 
satisfy  the  demands  of  the  performers ;  but 
much  still  remains  to  be  done  before  the 
rough  draft  can  be  made  to  assume  dramatic 
form.  As  the  methods  pursued  in  the  pro- 
cess of  amplification  differ  much  with  differ- 
ent playwrights,  no  cast-iron  rules  can  be 
laid  down.     Here,  as  everywhere  else,  how* 


168  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

ever,  it  is  best  to  observe  some  systematic 
order,  and  the  following  is  perhaps  the  most 
natural :  — 

(1.)  Exposition. 

(2.)  Order  of  incidents. 

(3.)  Division  into  acts. 

(4.)  Outline  of  scenes.* 

(5.)  Dialogue. 

2.  Exposition.  —  It  is  very  important 
that  the  matter  which  is  to  be  set  forth  in  the 
exposition  be  carefully  determined  upon  before 
the  actual  writing  of  the  play  begins.  The 
young  dramatist  usually  sets  about  his  work 
by  writing  the  first  few  scenes  of  the  play. 
This  done,  be  finds  that  certain  unanticipated 
explanations  are  necessary  before  he  can  go 
any  further.  Now  dialogue,  once  written,  is 
one  of  the  hardest  things  in  the  world  to  re- 
construct. The  writer  finds  no  point  at 
which  he  can  interrupt  it  to  insert  his  exposi- 
tory matter.  As  a  consequence,  he  either 
drags  the  latter  in,  head  and  heels,  where  it 
does  not  belong,  or,  if  he  is  wiser,  throws 
away  the  whole  composition  and  begins  again 
on  a  more  systematic  plan. 

Under  the  subject  of  exposition  we  may 
consider :  — 

(1.)  What  is  to  be  told. 

(2.)  How  it  shall  be  told. 

(3.)  Preparing  for  later  incidents. 

(4.)  Length  of  the  exposition. 

^  No3.  4  and  5  are  discussed  in  Chapter  xxv. 


HOW  TO   WRITE  A  PLAY.  169 

3.  What  is  to  be  Told.  —  The  safe  rule  is 
to  tell  as  little  as  possible.  In  the  lirst  place, 
the  story  should  be  so  selected  and  arranged 
that  few  presuppositions  will  be  required  in 
order  to  comprehend  it  as  the  action  goes  on ; 
and  in  the  second  place,  all  insignificant  de- 
tails should  be  left  to  the  imagination  of  the 
spectator,  or  simply  ignored.  In  the  case  of 
the  play  under  consideration,  the  playwright 
might,  in  his  exposition,  give  full  details  of 
the  past  life  of  Leonie.  He  might  inform 
the  audience  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
rich  merchant  of  Paris,  who  had  the  most  ex- 
traordinary adventures  during  a  street  riot, 
and  so  on,  indefinitely.  Nothing,  however, 
could  more  aptly  mark  the  handiwork  of  the 
unskillful  dramatist.  These  details  would  be 
wholly  irrelevant  to  the  story,  and  would  add 
nothing  to  the  effect  that  Leonie  produces  on 
the  audience.  If  the  spectators  see  a  j^oung 
girl  who  is  pretty,  interesting,  and  amusing, 
they  will  not  care  whether  her  father  was  a 
merchant  or  a  hackman.  On  the  other  hand, 
details  that  materially  add  to  the  effective- 
ness of  Leonie's  appearance,  and  the  strength 
of  the  situations  in  which  she  is  an  actor, 
should  not  be  left  out  of  account.  It  may  be 
worth  while,  for  example,  to  give  the  audience 
to  understand  that  she  is  an  orphan,  depend- 
ent on  the  Countess  for  protection  and  sym- 
pathy, for  this  will  both  win  interest  for  the 
girl,  and  render  the  Countess's  position  more 


170  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITING. 

perplexing  when  the  struggle  comes  between 
love  and  duty.  Perhaps  the  following  are  the 
most  important  points  to  be  brought  out  in 
the  exposition :  — 

(1.)  Leouie's  relations  to  the  Countess. 

(2.)  The  fact  that  Charles,  the  groom,  is 
Henri  in  disguise. 

(3.)  The  reason  for  the  disguise. 

(4.)  The  fact  that  the  Baron  is  coming 
(with  a  warrant  for  Henri's  death)  to  search 
the  house. 

(5.)  The  Countess's  love  for  Henri. 

(6.)  Gustave's  love  for  the  Countess. 

(7.)  The  names  and  some  of  the  peculiari- 
ties of  all  the  characters. 

Leonie's  love  for  Henri  will  probably  begin 
during  the  progress  of  the  play. 

4.  How  it  shall  be  Told.  —  As  pointed 
out  elsewhere,  the  best  method  of  exposition 
is  by  implication ;  *  that  is,  by  so  contriving 
the  action  that  the  explanatory  matter  will  at 
the  same  time  be  conveyed  to  the  apprehen- 
sion of  the  audience.  This  method,  however, 
is  not  in  all  cases  practicable.  Where  the 
fact  to  be  explained  consists  of  numerous  de- 
tails, or  is  for  any  other  reason  not  easy  of 
comprehension,  a  more  direct  method  is  justi- 
fiable. An  examination  of  the  seven  points 
of  the  exposition,  given  in  the  last  paragraph, 
will  show  that  all  except  Nos.  1  and  4  can  be 
embodied  in  the  action. 

1  See  Chapter  xvii.  4,  5, 13, 14,  10. 


HOW  TO   WRITE  A  PLAY.  171 

(1.)  Leonie's  relations  to  the  Countess  will 
be  easily  apparent  from  a  conversation  be- 
tween them  on  almost  any  topic.  Much  can 
be  implied  in  the  acting,  by  looks,  tones  of 
voice,  etc. 

(2.)  If  No,  1  of  the  synopsis  of  scenes, 
given  in  the  last  chapter,  is  used,  Henri's  con- 
duct and  manners  before  Leonie  will  indicate 
to  the  audience  that  he  is  not  what  his  livery 
would  indicate  him  to  be.  He  can  be  shown 
wiser  than  his  station,  he  can  be  made  to 
quote  poetry,  pass  judgment  on  art,  discuss 
politics,  etc.,  in  a  way  that  will  convince  the 
audience  that  he  is  masquerading. 

(3.)  The  reasons  for  Henri's  disguise,  the 
nature  of  his  crime  against  the  government, 
the  circumstances  of  his  coming  to  the  Coun- 
tess's chateau,  etc.,  will  obviously  be  much  too 
complicated  to  be  told  in  any  form  except 
narrative.  There  are  several  expedients  that 
can  be  resorted  to,  however,  to  break  up  the 
monotony  of  a  formal  recital  and  to  give  the 
narrative  life  and  action. 

(a.)  The  facts  may  be  brought  out  not  in 
one  scene,  but  in  several.  We  may  have  one 
or  two  particulars  told  in  one  place,  then  after 
a  scene  or  two  a  few  more,  and  so  on.  Per- 
haps the  first  recital  may  be  interrupted,  leav- 
ing the  hearer  in  suspense  for  a  few  moments. 

(b.)  The  facts  may  be  narrated  partly  by 
one  person,  partly  by  another  ;  partly  in  one 
way,  partly  in  another.    For  example,  in  an 


172  THE  ART  OF   PL  AY  WRITING. 

early  scene,  the  Countess  may  be  represented 
as  receiving  a  letter  from  Henri's  mother, 
begging  that  she  will  protect  him  from  the 
consequences  of  his  indiscretion. 

Later  on,  a  scene  may  occur  in  which  Henri, 
at  the  request  of  the  Countess,  relates  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  escapade. 

The  employment  of  a  letter  as  a  means  to 
convey  information  which  would  otherwise 
have  to  be  told  directly,  is  one  of  the  most 
convenient  of  stage  devices,  —  so  very  con- 
venient, that  in  some  plays  that  might  be 
mentioned,  it  has  been  absurdly  overdone. 
The  practice  is  ridiculed  in  Daly's  A  Night 
Off,  where  the  Roman  maiden  of  a  play  is, 
after  many  vicissitudes,  finally  reduced  to  "  a 
letter  on  a  stump."  There  can  be  no  objec- 
tion, of  course,  to  a  moderate  employment  of 
the  letter  as  a  method  of  exposition. 

(c.)  As  before  suggested,  the  narrative 
should  give  chances  for  dramatic  action. 
These  might  be  found  in  abundance  in  the 
scene  just  referred  to,  Henri  could  be  made 
to  relate  with  great  vivacity  some  noble  and 
generous  exploit,  to  which  the  Countess,  al- 
ready in  love  with  him,  listens  with  great  dis- 
play of  emotion,  interrupting  the  recital  at 
intervals  by  exclamations  of  sympathy. 

(4.)  The  coming  of  the  Baron  may  be  an- 
nounced to  Henri  by  the  Countess,  as  a  reason 
why  he  should  preserve  greater  discretion; 
and  the  fact  that  he  has  been  condemned  to 


HOW  TO  WRITE  A  PLAY.  173 

death  may  be  read  by  some  one  in  a  news- 
paper paragraph. 

(5.)  The  actress  who  takes  the  part  of  the 
Countess  may  be  depended  upon,  if  she  knows 
her  business,  to  show  her  feeling  toward 
Henri,  even  without  the  saying  of  a  word.  It 
will  be  well,  of  course,  to  provide  scenes  in 
which  this  opportunity  will  be  given  her,  and 
as  this  is  an  important  factor  in  the  play,  it 
may  be  well  to  give  the  Countess  a  few  lines 
of  soliloquy  that  will  remove  all  chance  of 
doubt. 

(6.)  The  remark  made  in  the  preceding 
paragraph  will  apply  here  also ;  that  is,  Gus- 
tave  may  be  allowed  to  indicate  his  passion 
by  his  actions  ;  but  a  more  definite  statement 
of  the  situation  is  preferable. 

(7.)  The  way  in  which  the  names  and  char- 
acteristics of  the  personages  are  told  should 
be  varied  as  much  as  possible.  Henri  can,  of 
course,  be  addressed  as  Charles  by  Leonie,  and 
as  Henri  by  the  Countess.  His  full  name  may 
be  read  by  the  Countess  in  the  letter,  or  it 
may  occur  in  the  newspaper  paragraph  an- 
nouncing his  condemnation.  Gustave,  upon 
his  first  entry,  may  be  announced  by  a  ser- 
vant. The  Baron's  name  in  full  can  be  men- 
tioned by  the  Countess  when  warning  Henri 
of  his  approach.  The  announcement  of  the 
name  may,  in  all  except  the  case  of  Gustave, 
be  accompanied  by  some  word  or  phrase  de- 
scriptive of  character ;  as,  for  example,  the 


174  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITINQ. 

Countess  may  say,  "  Ldonie,  foolish  girl,  what 
are  you  doing  ?  "  or,  "  Henri,  impulsive  as 
ever,  I  see,"  or,  "  Look  out  for  the  Baron  de 
Montrichard ;  he  is  a  cunning  old  fox,"  etc. 

5.  Preparing  for  Later  Incidents.  —  It 
is  an  excellent  plan  to  introduce  into  the  very 
beginning  of  the  play  matter  which  will  serve 
as  preparation  for  incidents  occurring  much 
later.  It  is  true  of  all  plays,  but  especially 
true  of  comedy,  that  the  spectator  experiences 
a  peculiar  delight  when,  at  the  close,  he  finds 
an  incident  directly  resulting  from  some  fact 
made  prominent  at  the  beginning.  Thus,  in 
the  Lady  of  Lyoiis,  Pauline  is  represented  as 
receiving  flowers  from  some  unknown  source. 
This  fact  is  simply  noted  as  something  mys- 
terious. Later  on  we  learn  that  they  are  sent 
by  Claude  Melnotte.  In  the  play  in  hand, 
the  last  incident  is  to  be  the  arrival  of  the 
amnesty  that  secures  Henri's  freedom.  It 
will  be  advisable,  therefore,  in  perhaps  the 
first  scene,  to  introduce  some  reference  to  an 
expected  amnesty.  It  may  perhaps  be  re- 
ferred to  in  the  letter,  which  the  Countess 
receives  from  Henri's  mother,  as  something 
hoped  for. 

6.  Length  of  the  Exposition.  —  As  has 
been  said,  the  exposition  should  be  over  with 
at  least  by  the  time  one  fifth  of  the  play 
has  been  performed.  If  the  incidents  in  the 
series  given  in  the  last  chapter  are  about  equi- 
distant, the  exposition  should  not  go  beyond 
No.  3. 


HOW  TO  WRITE  A  PLAY.  175 

7.  Order  of  Incidents.  —  The  general  order 
of  incideuts  will  be  apparent,  of  course,  from 
the  trend  of  the  story,  but  many  will  be  found 
which  seemingly  might  occur  in  one  place 
as  well  as  another.  To  determine  whether 
the  proper  order  of  incidents  has  been  ob- 
served in  the  fiirst  rough  outline,  it  will  be 
well  to  settle,  first  of  all,  what  is  to  be  the 
grand  climax.  The  end  will,  of  course,  be  the 
union  of  Leonie  and  Henri,  and  the  pardon  of 
the  latter.  Consequently,  the  grand  climax 
must  come  at  the  point  where  this  conclusion 
seems  most  hopeless,  the  point  at  which  most 
obstacles  have  collected.  A  careful  consider- 
ation of  the  synopsis  of  situations  will  show 
that  No.  11  best  answers  this  requirement. 
At  that  point,  Henri  seems  pledged  to  accept 
the  Countess's  love,  while  Leonie  seems  to 
have  forfeited  all  claim  to  his  regard.  The 
plot  may  be  represented  by  the  following  dia- 
gram :  — 

The  Countess  declares 
her  love. 


HenrVs      The  Countess  relinquisher 
arrival.  Henri  to  Leonie. 

The  proper  arrangement  of  the  incidents 
requires  :  — 

(1.)  That  all  up  to  the  point   where   the 


176  THE  ART  OF  PLAY  WRITING. 

Countess  tells  Henri  of  her  love  should  be  of 
the  nature  of  complication  ^ ;  all  from  the 
point  to  the  close,  of  the  nature  of  solution.*" 

(2.)  That  the  incidents  in  the  growth  be 
arranged  to  form  a  climax,  each  situation  be- 
ing stronger  than  the  preceding. 

(3.)  That  the  incidents  after  the  climax, 
while  they  serve  to  untie  the  knot,  be  so  ar- 
ranged that  not  all  the  suspense  shall  be  de- 
stroyed until  the  very  close. 

The  student  should  carefully  examine  the 
synopsis  of  situations  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter, —  observe  whether  the  order  given  satis- 
fies the  above  requirements,  and  try  various 
arrangements  until  the  best  order  is  settled 
upon. 

8.  Incidents  not  Represented,  on  the 
Stage.  —  Among  the  incidents  will  probably 
be  found  some  which  are  not  suitable  for 
stage  representation.  These  may  either  be 
thrown  out  altogether,  or,  if  too  good  to  be 
rejected,  may  be  related  by  some  one  of  the 
participants.  Thus  incident  No.  2,  that  of 
Leonie's  being  saved  by  Henri,  is  at  once 
seen  to  be  unavailable  for  scenic  purposes. 
It  is  nevertheless  an  effective  incident,  and 
one  not  to  be  lightly  thrown  away.  It  may 
be  retained  by  putting  the  recital  of  the 
rescue  in  the  mouth  of  Leonie,  who  can  tell 
the  Countess  a  dramatic  story  ending  with 
the  confession  of  her  love  for  Henri. 

^  See  Chapter  xviii.  "^  See  Chapter  xx. 


HOW  TO  "WRITE  A  PLAY.  177 

9.  Division  into  Acts.  —  As  pointed  at 
elsewhere,^  the  division  into  acts  is  purely 
conventional,  and  so  differs  from  the  division 
into  exposition,  growth,  etc.,  which  is  entirely 
logical  and  natural.  Nevertheless,  from  a 
practical  point  of  view  the  first  is  the  most 
important.  Good  plays  may  be  written  (and 
have  been  written)  by  men  who  have  never 
heard  of  the  theoretical  divisions ;  but  igno- 
rance of  the  meaning  and  principles  of  the 
division  into  acts  would  mean  inevitable  fail- 
ure. General  usage  regarding  the  number  of 
acts  proper  to  various  kinds  of  plays  has  al- 
ready been  given.^  We  have  here  to  consider 
the  act  in  its  relation  to  the  progress  of  the 
story. 

10.  Principles  of  Division.  —  At  the  end 
of  the  act,  the  curtain  falls.     This  means  :  — 

(1.)  That  one  division  of  the  play  has 
come  to  an  end. 

(2.)  That  (excepting  the  case  of  the  last 
act)  the  action  of  the  play  will  be  suspended 
for  a  short  time.  Eemembering  that  two 
great  principles  of  dramatic  construction  are 
climax  and  suspense,  we  shall  be  led  to  the 
following  conclusions  :  — 

(a.)  The  conclusion  of  the  act,  since  it 
marks  a  stage  in  the  progress  of  the  play, 
should  be  a  climax. 

(b.)  Since  the  action  of  the  play  is  to  be 
interrupted,  in  order  to  hold  the  attention  of 

1  See  Chapter  x.  1,  2,  a       -  See  Chapter  x.  8. 


178  THE  ART  OF  PLATWRITING. 

the  audience  over  the  intervening  period,  the 
conclusion  of  the  act  must  be  so  arranged  as 
to  leave  the  spectator  in  a  state  of  strong  sus- 
pense. 

This  is  especially  true  of  modem  plays.  In 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare,  and  in  the  older 
drama  generally,  the  conclusion  of  the  act  is 
often  a  scene  of  no  particular  impressiveness, 
possessing  the  force  neither  of  climax  nor  of 
suspense.  In  modern  plays  this  cannot  be 
endured.  The  curtain  must  be  brought  down 
upon  the  veiy  culmination  of  the  climax,  and 
the  climax  must  be  of  a  character  to  fill  the 
audience  with  an  eager  desire  to  see  the  be- 
ginning of  the  next  act.  For  this  reason,  in 
the  acting  editions  of  Shakespeare,  the  acts 
are  re-arranged,  so  as  to  comply  with  modern 
requirements. 

11.  Application  of  the  Principles.  —  In 
the  play  we  are  considering,  the  point  at 
which  the  close  of  the  act  will  fall  will  be 
determined  approximately  by  the  number  of 
acts  into  which  the  playwright  decides  to 
divide  it.  If  he  is  writing  the  play  to  order, 
he  will  probably  receive  instructions  to  pro- 
vide for  a  certain  number  of  acts  according  to 
the  fancy  of  the  person  for  whom  it  is  writ- 
ten. If  he  is  writing  upon  speculation,  or  is 
at  liberty  to  decide  for  himself,  he  will  prob- 
ably in  this  case  conclude,  in  accordance 
with  the  suggestions  given  elsewhere,  that 
three  is  the  proper  number  of  acts  for  this 


HOW  TO  WRITE  A   PLAY.  179 

style  of  play.^  The  close  of  the  first  and 
second  acts  will,  therefore,  fall  at  points  re- 
spectively about  one  third  and  two  thirds  of 
the  distance  from  the  beginning  to  the  close. 
Let  us  first  inquire  at  what  point  Act.  I.  may 
properly  close. 

Consulting  the  synopsis  of  situations,  we 
find  that  both  Nos.  3  and  4  seem  to  answer 
the  requirements  of  position.  The  question 
then  is,  which  best  observes  the  demands  of 
climax  and  suspense.  A  little  reflection  will 
show  that  No.  3  is  inferior  in  both  respects. 

(1.)  In  the  first  place,  the  climax  involved 
in  the  confession  of  Leonie  is  purely  emotion- 
al, and  therefore  should  not  be  strongly  em- 
phasized and  dwelt  upon  in  what  is  intended 
for  a  comedy.  If  the  audience,  during  the 
entr'acte,  are  made  to  ponder  upon  this  scene, 
they  will  get  the  impression  that  the  play  is 
an  emotional  drama,  and  so  fail  to  appreciate 
it  in  its  true  character.  The  second  situation, 
on  the  other  hand,  possesses  strong  comedy 
features  in  the  absurdity  of  Gustave's  posi- 
tion. It  is  really,  therefore,  for  the  present 
play,  the  stronger  climax  of  the  two. 

(2.)  The  suspense  is  stronger  in  the  second 
situation.  The  probabilities  are  that  Leonie 
and  Henri  will  come  together  at  the  close. 
The  audience  feels  this,  and  is  naturally  in 
sympathy  with  such  a  termination  of  the 
plot.  Suspense  will  arise,  therefore,  when 
'■  See  Chapter  x.  8  (7). 


180  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

some  obstacle  seems  thrown  in  the  way  o* 
this  method  of  closing.  If  the  curtain  falls 
on  the  confession  of  Leonie  the  general  sen- 
timent will  be,  "  Well,  Leonie  is  going  to 
marry  him,  of  course,"  and  the  suspense  will 
be  reduced  almost  to  zero.  On  the  other 
hand,  every  event  which  seems  to  indicate 
that  the  Countess  may  possibly  capture  Henri 
arouses  suspense.  Gustave  can  love  the 
Countess  ;  why  may  not  Henri  do  the  same  ? 
A  second  element  of  suspense  arises  from  the 
fact  of  Gustave's  being  deceived.  What  will 
happen  when  he  discovers  how  he  has  been 
played  upon  ?  How  will  the  Countess  carry 
it  off  ?  All  these  queries  make  the  spectator 
eager  to  have  the  curtain  rise  again  and  the 
story  continue. 

A  precisely  similar  course  of  reasoning  will 
probably  lead  to  the  adoption  of  No.  8  as  the 
best  situation  for  the  close  of  Act  II. 

The  student  should  refer  at  this  point  to 
the  discussion,  in  Chapter  xvi.  4,  of  the  ques- 
tion whether  the  spectator  should  be  let  into 
the  secret  of  the  close.  Its  application  in 
the  present  instance  will  be  readily  seen. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

HOW  TO  "WRITE  A  PLAY  (continued). 
Filling  In. 

1,  Outline  of  Scenes.  —  The  next  stage  of 
the  work  is  very  difficult  in  practice,  and  one 
concerning  which  no  very  satisfactory  princi- 
ples can  be  laid  down.  The  general  move- 
ment of  the  characters  of  the  play  is  noAV 
definitely  settled  upon,  together  with  all  the 
important  situations  resulting  from  their  col- 
lisions. It  remains  to  indicate  in  detail  the 
successive  steps  by  which  the  situations  are 
brought  about ;  that  is,  the  actual  entrees  and 
exits  of  the  characters,  and  their  actions  while 
on  the  stage.  This  may  be  best  done  by  brief 
sketches  or  outlines  of  each  scene  in  its  proper 
order,  noting  in  the  fewest  possible  words  the 
characteristic  facts.  The  following  outline  of 
a  scene  in  Act  I.  will  serve  as  an  example  :  — 

Enter  L^onie  D.  R.l  E.,  in  riding  habit.  Countess  sends 
Henri  to  see  after  horse.  Exit  Henri,  C.  L.  Enter  Gus- 
tave,  C.  L.  Brief  conversation  with  Countess.  Enter 
Henri,  C-  L.,  etc. 

The  word  "  scene  "  is  used  in  this  chapter, 
in  a  general  way,  to  mean  any  small  division 


182  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

of  the  act,  and  corresponds  to  the  French 
•word  scene}  Many  playwrights  employ  the 
French  principle  in  the  process  of  outlining, 
as  it  serves  to  mark  off  the  successive  stages 
of  progress  in  the  plot. 

2.  Order  of  Scenes.  —  To  determine  the 
proper  order  of  scenes  in  a  play  is  one  of  the 
things  in  playwriting  which  must,  to  a  large 
extent,  be  left  to  genius  and  experience.  The 
most  important  matters  to  be  observed  are  the 
following  :  — 

(1.)  Connection  of  scenes. 

(2.)  Sequence  of  scenes. 

(3.)  Variety  of  scenes. 

(4.)  Time  of  characters  on  the  stage. 

(5.)  Opportunities  for  dressing. 

(6.)  Opportunities  for  action. 

3.  Connection  of  Scenes.  —  No  scene 
should  be  written  which  does  not  find  its  ex- 
planation in  some  preceding  scene,  and  form 
the  basis  of  some  scene  that  follows.  To  ac- 
complish this  result,  the  mind  of  the  play- 
wright must  be  continually  running  backward 
and  forward  over  the  skeleton  of  the  play,  — 
backward,  to  see  that  each  new  scene  outlined 
is  the  logical  outcome  of  what  has  already 
been  outlined  ;  forward,  to  see  what  modifica- 
tions it  may  effect  in  the  remaining  portion 
of  the  plot.  In  many  cases,  he  will  be  able 
to  "  justify  "  a  scene  whose  relevancy  is  not 
sufiiciently  apparent,  by  going  back  over  his 

1  See  Chapter  x.  5. 


HOW  TO   WRITE  A  PLAY.  183 

work  and  inserting  a  line  here  and  there ;  in 
other  cases,  the  introduction  of  new  scenes 
■which  seem  too  valuable  to  be  thrown  away 
will  sometimes  compel  a  considerable  modifi- 
cation of  all  that  comes  after  them. 

4.  Sequence  of  Scenes.  —  As  the  scenef 
are  the  logical  connecting  links  between  the 
important  situations  and  climaxes,  they  are 
not  to  be  thrown  in  haphazard,  but  made  to 
follow  a  regular,  orderly  sequence.  Each 
scene  must  glide  into  the  following  one  with- 
out haste  or  jar.  It  must  be  the  direct  con- 
tinuation of  the  preceding  scene  and  a  direct 
preparation  for  the  one  that  is  to  follow.  In 
short,  every  scene  must  be  made  to  play  its 
part  in  the  regular  rise  and  fall  of  the  dra- 
matic movement. 

5.  Variety  of  Scenes.  —  While  each  scene 
is  most  intimately  connected  with  those  which 
precede  and  follow,  it  must  not  be  permitted 
to  be  the  same  in  kind,  or  the  play  will  soon 
grow  monotonous.  Every  device  known  to 
the  playwright  must  be  employed  to  secure 
the  effects  of  variety  and  contrast.  The  fol- 
lowing points  need  especial  care  :  — 

(1.)  Variety  of  emotions  aroused. 
(2.)  Variety   in   number   and   grouping  of 
characters. 

(3.)  Variety  in  method  of  exit  and  enters. 

6.  Variety  of  Emotions.  —  This  means 
that  there  should  be  a  constant  change  from 
comic  to  pathetic,  from  grave  to   gay,  from 


184  THE  ART  OF  PLAYWRITING. 

brilliant  repartee  to  earnest  sentiment.  These 
changes  must  not  be  made  abruptly  (unless 
by  that  means  some  powerful  effect  may  be 
obtained),  but  should  shade  one  into  the  other 
in  the  most  natural  and  unobtrusive  manner, 
the  change  being  made  just  at  the  point  where 
interest  is  about  to  pass  into  a  feeling  of  mo- 
notony. 

7.  Number  and  Grouping  of  Characters. 
—  The  number  of  characters  on  the  stage 
should  be  varied  from  scene  to  scene.  Scenes 
in  which  the  same  number  of  characters  are 
concerned  should  not  be  permitted  to  follow 
each  other  in  close  succession.  For  one  so- 
liloquy to  follow  another  (unless  some  comic 
or  burlesque  effect  is  attained  by  this  very 
means),  is  inartistic  to  the  last  degree.  As 
regards  the  grouping  of  characters,  the  prin- 
ciples laid  down  in  a  preceding  chapter  ^  must 
be  carefully  observed.  That  is,  those  charac- 
ters must  be  brought  together  which  will  best 
serve  as  foils  one  to  another.  The  frank,  im- 
pulsive character  of  Leonie  should  be  used  to 
bring  out  the  finesse  of  the  Countess.  The 
vacillation  of  Gustave  should  be  opposed  to 
the  reckless  daring  of  Henri.  On  the  other 
hand,  scenes  in  which  Gustave  and  Leonie  are 
alone  together  will  be  of  necessity  weak,  and 
should  be  avoided  altogether. 

8.  Variety  of  Exits  and  Enters.  —  Meth- 
ods of  varying  the  exits  and  enters  are  given 

^  See  Chapter  xxiv. 


HOW  TO  WRITE  A  PLAY.  185 

elsewhere.*  All  of  these  devices,  and  any 
others  that  the  dramatist  may  invent,  should 
be  employed  to  give  variety  to  the  stage 
movements. 

9.  Time  of  Characters  on  the  Stage.  — 
The  length  of  time  which  each  character 
spends  on  the  stage  must  be  carefully  reck- 
oned up,  and  pains  taken  to  see  that  no  one 
is  given  a  disproportionate  amount  of  work  to 
do.  The  Countess,  as  leading  lady  and  most 
important  character,  will,  of  course,  bear  the 
brunt  of  the  action.  No  actor  should  be  kept 
on  the  stage  continuously  for  more  than  two 
important  scenes ;  that  is,  not  more  than  from 
ten  to  fifteen  minutes,  nor  for  more  than  ninety 
minutes  all  told,  out  of  the  usual  two  hours  of 
total  production.  This  is  on  the  supposition 
that  the  part  of  the  Countess  borders  on  a 
star  role.  In  actual  star  plays,  the  star  is 
generally  before  the  audience  about  ten  to 
fifteen  minutes  longer. 

10.  Opportunities  for  Dressing.  —  If  any 
one  of  the  characters  is  required  to  change 
his  dress  during  the  progress  of  the  act,  care 
should  be  taken  to  allow  sufiicient  time  be- 
tween his  exit  and  his  entrance  for  this  task 
to  be  accomplished.  The  time  required  will 
depend  upon  the  elaborateness  of  the  change. 
Generally  speaking,  at  least  from  five  to  ten 
minutes  should  be  allowed.  If  a  new  make- 
up is  also  required,  an  additional  margin  of 

*  See  Chapter  ziL 


186  THE  ART  OF  PL  AT  WRITING. 

five  minutes,  that  is,  fifteen  minutes  all  told, 
will  be  necessary.  Change  of  dress  can  of 
course  be  made  in  niuch  shorter  time. 

11.  Opportunities  for  Acting.  —  Volumes 
might  be  written  on  this  point,  and  indeed  it 
is  not  too  much  to  say  that  right  here,  if  any- 
where, lies  the  secret  of  successful  play- 
writing.  Like  most  secrets,  however,  it  can- 
not be  communicated  ;  it  must  be  discovered 
by  each  author  for  himself,  either  by  native 
genius,  or  by  dint  of  observation  and  experi- 
ment. One  caution  may  be  of  some  service 
here  :  —  Do  not  make  your  characters  say  in 
words  what  they  can  say  more  forcibly  in 
action.  When  the  Countess  learns  of  Henri's 
love  for  Leonie,  she  should  not  be  made  to 
dissipate  her  emotion  in  words  —  a  look  will 
be  vastly  more  impressive,  and  really  tell  the 
audience  more  than  any  words  possibly  could. 

12.  Dialogue.  —  After  the  entire  play,  or 
perhaps  the  first  act  only,  has  been  thus  out- 
lined, nothing  remains  but  to  write  the  dia- 
logue as  it  is  actually  to  be  spoken.  What 
character  this  shall  take  will  depend  largely 
upon  the  character  of  the  play  ^  and  the  in- 
dividuality of  the  author.  In  plays  repre- 
senting modern  life,  especially  comedies,  the 
dialogue  cannot  be  too  crisp  and  nervous. 
Clearness  and  force  should  be  the  principal 
qualities  aimed  at.  Ornamental  writing  of 
every  sort  may  be  left  out  altogether,  with 

^  See  Chapter  ix. 


HOW   TO  WRITE  A  PLAT.  187 

slight  danger  of  marring  the  effectiveness  of 
the  play. 

Some  playwrights  go  to  the  extent  of  out- 
lining the  entire  dialogue,  or  large  portions  of 
it,  before  setting  to  work  at  actual  composi- 
tion. 

The  method  sketched  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ters is  not,  of  course,  the  only  one  by  which 
plays  may  be  written.  Almost  every  play- 
wright has  his  own  ways  of  working,  peculiar 
to  his  genius  and  temperament.  The  process 
here  set  forth  is  intended  to  be  merely  sug- 
gestive, to  lead  the  student  to  go  at  his  work 
in  a  systematic  way,  whatever  system  he  may 
finally  adopt. 

The  student  will  of  course  have  recognized, 
in  the  play  just  outlined,  the  main  points  of 
Eugene  Scribe's  Un  Duel  en  Amour,  which 
Charles  Eeade  Englished  under  the  title  of 
The  Ladies'  Battle. 


Fie*'         ^! 


rpiMTR       '^'^      001335  804        9 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 


DEC  17iy^3 


DEC  1  0  '^^^ 


DEC21WI 


DEC  12  1978 


JAN  3  1 1980 


JAN  28  1980 


MAY  0!)  1982 


wnxz 


JIW 


APF  1  b  1986 
APR  2  5  1986 


CI  39 


UCSD  Libr. 
I 


